


somewhere near the end of the world

by standbyme



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, McChekov, Multi, spirk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:04:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbyme/pseuds/standbyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when spock inadvertently discovers pavel chekov's most embarrassing secret the universe, faithfully, responds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. dinner at eight // rufus wainwright

_god's chosen a place,_  
_somewhere near the end of the world,_  
_somewhere near the end of our lives._  
  
dinner at eight / rufus wainwright 

 

If Pavel had known what trouble it would have gotten him into, he wouldn't have said anything about it.  
  
That wasn't entirely true. He _knew_ that it was in the best interest of the ship and everyone aboard to say something, that he was obligated to say something when the inquiry was made, and that he had done the right thing by speaking up.  
It was only that it all felt _extremely_ unnecessary with Mister Spock bearing down on him in the middle of the bridge, surrounded by anxious and expectant faces.    
  
"Mr. Chekov," Spock began and Pavel felt his whole body break into a sweat.

"Y-Yes, Commander," he replied, voice tight.  
  
"Captain, with Chekov's consent, may I meld with his mind so I may also observe the intruder?"

Pavel immediately looked to Kirk, looming just over Spock's right shoulder. The captain nodded.

"That alright with you, Mr. Chekov?" Kirk asked, returning Pavel's worried stare.

"Certainly!" Pavel squeaked. He swallowed and shifted in his seat at the helm, hands palm down on his knees. "If you think it vill help."

"Very well," the Vulcan concluded, and the rest of the crew, who by this time had neglected all their duties, seemed to collectively lean in.

It wasn’t unusual to witness this kind of drama on the bridge in the middle of deep space, but it typically didn’t fall on the shoulders of one of its most favorite occupants. The excitable, brilliant navigator was only _slightly_ babied by everyone (when it counted, Pavel was there to be counted on, but in peace times...), though it was born from great respect and bolstered by the best attempts at not being patronizing. It was the general consensus that Pavel either was used to the treatment or was far too polite to ever say anything about it. Even Kirk shared the nervousness he could feel emanating from Uhura and Sulu; Chekov was so young, after all, and it was easy to be protective - no matter how smart and eager he was.

"Try not to scramble him too much, alright Spock," he chuckled, trying to ease the tension that was beginning to blanket the room. Spock's eyes narrowed and his hands came out from around his back, offended by the prospect that his culture's most cherished tradition would  _scramble_ someone as if they were an egg. 

As Spock took a step closer, Pavel's heel began drumming against the floor and he tried his best not to fidget, avoiding the first officer's dark eyes for fear that it would be even more awkward. This is what he got, he supposed, for trying to be good.

The intruder - whatever it was - had been able to disable any sensors it had come in contact with making it, from a surveillance perspective, invisible aboard the ship. The only indication of anything amiss was the log of something arriving on board late in the C shift the night prior on the second deck near a rarely used research lab.

Since, sensors and equipment had begun disengaging like dominoes as the entity passed by. With no way to monitor anything and no real idea of what it even looked like (there was speculation that it was disguised as a crew member), there was debate on what was to be done.

Nobody had come forward to say they had witnessed anything or even been in the hallway at the time, or so they had thought. Until _Pavel_ had spun in his seat to tell the Captain that wasn't completely the case.

_"_ I have been pulling parts from a...ah, defunct transporter for Meester Scott in ze lab on ze second deck," he had admitted, to the great surprise and interest of _everyone_ , especially Spock.

"When, approximately, were you in the lab?" he had inquired, and Pavel had tried to remember exactly, but it was difficult to say. The circuitry in the lab had not been repaired properly since the Khan Incident and so he often had to leave to reset the breaker, or tamper with wiring if an instrument was not reading the way it should. With his cheeks going red he confessed that he preferred it to the other labs because it was quiet and he could work for a long time without being disturbed - though he wasn't sure if he was supposed to be using it, or if the work Scottie was having him do was even sanctioned.

"You're not in any trouble, Pav," Kirk had said, sensing his hesitance. He smiled crookedly and stood from his chair, walking over to stand by Spock. Sulu had swiveled towards them and Uhura and stepped away from her station and Pavel had nodded shyly. If anything, Kirk had gone on to say, Pavel was probably inadvertently repairing the room himself which made up for any indiscretion. Leave it to their whiz kid to have his eyes on everything. 

Spock had been the one to redirect their attention to the situation at hand. The intruder. If Pavel had been going up and down the hallway he may have seen it.

Pavel, to his great embarrassment, couldn't say that he knew for sure if he saw anything out of the ordinary. It was a quiet deck, but C was a busy shift and engineering operated there often, and it was never a surprise to run into someone. That and he was usually buried in his own work and may have been too distracted to notice. Spock, ever practical, had then insisted he perform it - this _mind meld_.

He could, presumably, tap into Pavel's subconscious and sift through memory that Pavel may not even know he had.   

Pavel remembered the concept from some distant  anthropological chapter on Vulcans, but it was faint if anything. All he knew was that he wished he could take it back. What if he was no help anyway, and to have all this sudden attention piled on him...especially from Spock, who he avoided whenever possible.

All at once he was stricken with the terror of disappointing Spock all over again.

"There will be no discomfort," Spock said calmly, and Pavel nearly sagged at the understatement. Spock bent, so their faces were level with one another.  

"A-aye," was Chekov's feeble reply, his hands clutching at his knees. He looked at the point between Spock's brows, right above his nose, and in one smooth motion the Vulcan lifted his hand, fingers splayed. He placed two on his forehead and the other two just below his cheek. Chekov clenched his hands into a ball.

"Our minds, one and together," Spock chanted quietly and Chekov took a sharp breath, like he was jumping into a pool. Moments later, he  erupted back onto the bridge with a gasp, panting harshly, his face no longer unbearably hot but bleached to a ghastly white.

Spock was silent, remaining half bent near him. The boy in the chair in front of him trembled and stared unblinkingly at the floor, as though he prayed a hole would swallow him up right there.   
He knew there was a word for what he was feeling: mortified. Gracefully, Spock let his hand come away from Chekov's face to join its twin behind his back. He straightened, righted his shoulders, and turned to Jim.

"I believe Chekov has been of great help to us," he said evenly. Kirk tried to decipher Spock's stare, but the Vulcan was being purposefully vague. Kirk's eyebrows crawled together.

At the helm, Sulu reached out to touch Chekov's shoulder and Pavel flew out of his chair, jumping to his seat, rattling the console as his chair spun behind him. 

"May I have a recess!" he nearly shouted, and Kirk suddenly remembered his own brush with mind melding.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Chekov of course - " and without further acknowledgement Pavel barreled between Spock and Kirk and off the bridge entirely.

"Is he going to be alright?" Sulu asked, suspicious, and Kirk glanced at him.

"Emotional transference is common," he explained, easing Sulu's worry. Uhura glared at him from her corner. She would have words with him - them he corrected, thinking of Spock - later about all of this, he knew...

Kirk shook his head to clear it.

"Someone please call Lieutenant Riley to replace him - and please...notify Bones to get a nurse to his quarters," he said, and everyone spun back to their station. Kirk's eyes found Spock again. His head was bent slightly down, as it sometimes did when he was in deep consideration of something.  

"Mr. Spock?"

"Yes, Captain," Spock replied, having lapsed into thought during the preceding moments.

Jim wondered what it was that Spock had seen inside of Chekov's brilliant, mysterious, head that had him acting so surprised.

Whatever it was, he had a feeling that Spock had gotten himself into _far_ more than he had meant to.  
  


* * *

 

By the time it had all settled down and the intruder - a benign entity, hardly worthy of note, that had literally wandered aboard - was dismissed, Jim was desperate to know what it was that had Spock so unnerved.

"Spock you've been mulling this over for days, and I can tell," he said, picking up his chess piece and moving it. Spock didn't look up from the board.  
  
"It would be immoral for me to discuss the contents of another's mind," he replied blandly. "My opinion hasn't changed since the last ten times you asked."

"Oh, come on, he's eighteen and a half years old..." Jim said, taking a large bite of the chicken sandwich by his elbow. "What could possibly be so classified in Pavel Chekov's brain?" he went on to say around his mouthful.

Spock looked at him distastefully and then back to the board, making his careful move. Jim swallowed, and looked at his first officer and then rolled his eyes, throwing the sandwich back onto the tray. 

"If you don't say, I'll have to keep guessing," he said, smirking.

Spock didn't even blink, which only served to make Jim more determined. He had come to the conclusion that it was actually more fun wheedling it out of Spock over the course of several days than being told outright. It was more of a game that way, and infinitely entertaining. Today, however, Spock had reached the apex of his tolerance. Jim had guessed everything from a battery of deep confidential obsessions to the more far-fetched and ridiculous notion that Chekov was an interstellar crime lord.

Spock, trying to focus on the game they were actually playing, was no longer being so indulgent to these illogical and whimsical speculations.

"Chekov is indeed eighteen and a half years old," he said, and Jim leaned forward to hear him, curiosity outweighing his disappointment at no longer having the opportunity to annoy Spock so thoroughly. "...and as I suppose any eighteen and a half year old would be, he's rather..."

Jim waited, staring into the Vulcan's face.

"...distracted."

"Distracted? By what?" Jim gloated. He picked up a pawn and lazily placed it a few tiles away. "Although, that kid's probably got a lot flying around in his head..."

"Indeed," Spock said, and his composure slipped just enough for Jim to tell how fatigued he seemed to be of the conversation; of the entire topic. To Jim it was a delicious chance at having the upper hand; Spock’s inability to grasp the concept of gossip was endlessly amusing. Spock was on the end of a string, and Jim could just yoyo him for hours at a time.   
  
"Now I'm really going to have to guess," he said, smiling wryly and sitting back in his chair, abandoning the game. "Eighteen and a half years old, it's gotta be someone..."

Spock's face steeled.

"I have no comment -"

"Who is it?" Jim said, too smug, leaning forward again. Spock, predictably, said nothing, which in this case was everything.

"Is it someone we know?" Jim pried, nearly jumping out of his skin at the prospect. He had delayed this, but suspected it all along. He had thought back to when he was eighteen, and it was so obvious what had both his navigator and his first officer squirming so much. Ultimately, he sympathized, but he’d never claimed to be a saint. There wasn’t any harm in a little teasing. It boosted morale.  "Chekov has a crush - God, what is that _even_ like? Well, you saw - what _is_ it even like? I didn't think that kid had any room for a crush with all the things he's doing around here. Who has time for a crush when you're sitting on the second deck research lab every off day. I always figured he was pretty single-minded…”

"I can assure you Chekov has plenty of room," Spock muttered, and Jim grinned manically.

"You're kidding," he hissed, and Spock gave him as weary a look as he could muster.

"It would be futile to joke."

"Who is it, you have to tell me? GOD!" he said. The reality of what he had long believed to be the case flooded through him. Little Pavel Chekov had a crush. What Spock obviously found repugnant was what Jim considered adorable, and way too interesting. "What is it even like being in that kind of brain! It must be -"

"Absurd," Spock said, resigned to the fact that Jim had won, had managed to needle his way in and weasel this out of him. "And overwhelming...humans..." he said, defeated. "I don't quite know how you manage it."

Immediately, Jim set about listing all the crew he could remember and when Spock refused to respond to any he knew he was barking up the wrong tree. Suddenly, it dawned on him. His expression became sinister and he looked straight into Spock's face.

"Is it me?" he asked slyly, and Spock's eyebrow twitched and lifted in that handsome arc over his eye.

"As much as it would please you," he offered, relishing the fact that it was his turn to have the upper hand. Jim's own brow fell in honest confusion. "It isn't. It's far more disturbing."

"It's not me? Well then who the hell is it? I would have thought Sulu for sure, or something...that Riley kid he's always hanging around with. Or Scottie," Jim said bluntly, looking perturbed and his mouth twisting up at the thought of Montgomery Scott with their nubile navigator.  
  
"I'm sorry to offend you," Spock said coolly, glancing at his captain and placing a bishop on the second tier. Jim haphazardly slapped his queen somewhere he didn't even take note of, his chin leaned against his fist.

"Who doesn't have a crush on the _Captain_ ," Jim muttered. "Especially at eighteen and a half...and I'm always easy on him..."

Inwardly, Spock smiled. If he could have had it his way, he wouldn’t allow such a thing. He was far too...he brushed the thought away. Illogical. Ridiculous. No better than Chekov. He was bewildered, not so much with Chekov, but what it inspired in himself. The idea that he was so easily influenced…

Jim fell into silence, but it wasn't long-lived. Spock perused his pieces, deciding.

"...I mean, the only one left is who? Bones? Uhura?"

Spock's hand stuttered in mid-air, hovering over a space. Jim's fist came down from his face and his back straightened.

"Check," Spock said, and Jim looked at the board and made a hurried decision.

"Is it Uhura?" he rushed to say and Spock  moved his piece again.

"Check -"

"It couldn't be, you'd have known about that you nosy bastard - It couldn't -" he moved the piece again. Spock kept his eyes down, but he could certainly feel the realization dawn on Jim and it rippled out like a wave. He mentally apologized for what he had just done; in all truth he really hadn't meant it, but Jim had an incredibly nasty habit of getting the better of him.  
  
Of all the possible people for Pavel Chekov to place his affections it had to be that abrasive, opinionated, intolerable -

" _Bones_?" Jim said, beyond the point of incredulity.

"-mate," Spock finished.

Jim, it was obvious, didn't even care.

"Bones? It's Bones? He has a - it's BONES?"

"This is past the point of discussion," Spock started to say, but it was in vain. Jim was speechless.

" ** _B_** _ **ones**? _ "

Spock sat back stiffly in his chair. There it was.

"It appears that our...good doctor...has an admirer," Spock relented, and Jim's face contorted through a complex sequence of emotions all at once. "A fervent one, at that.”  
  
If Jim had been any less mature he probably would have gagged.

"Bones? Our Bones? Leonard H. McCoy, M.D., Chief Surgeon of the Starship Enterprise?"

"Illogically, yes," Spock said gravely. “The cat is, as you say, out of the bag.”

"He picked Bones over ME?" Jim said, exasperated, clutching the uniform over his chest. Spock sighed.

"I will admit I found it equally confounding," was all he had to say. "Of possible attractions, this was the most surprising. It has little, if any, return value..."

“He doesn’t even know Bones!” Jim cried, ignoring him. “They haven’t spoken more than two words to each other!”

Spock began resetting his pieces, assuming that a rematch would eventually be held once Jim got a hold of himself, or even if he didn't.

“I said he had an admirer. You don’t have to speak to admire someone,” Spock clarified. It was fulfilling to have Jim share in his confusion over it all, though he was sure Jim’s was born out of jealousy rather than Spock’s misunderstanding of why _any_ being would be romantically inclined to Dr. McCoy, especially one as bright as Chekov. There were other things he had gotten inside of Pavel’s mind, a glimpse of the ensign’s sensitivity, foremostly, that seemed impractical when paired with McCoy’s scalding personality.

“Well when the hell was he _admiring_ Bones?” Jim said, following Spock’s example and gathering his pieces.

“I would guess, from the overwhelming content of his memory, for as long as they both have been in Starfleet.”

“So, on Earth then? Before he got on the Enterprise?” Jim’s brow was furrowed, no doubt trying to think up any time he had seen Chekov prior to him taking the helm. It was obvious by his expression he couldn’t recall.

“You were notorious, which, in turn, made Dr. McCoy notorious as your companion. It isn’t illogical to assume he would have seen the two of you together or separately at one time or another.”

“More like my warden,” Kirk grouched.

“Even so,” Spock said, interest overwhelming the initial distaste he had been carrying around for several days. “You forget Chekov’s brief popularity after he won the marathon. It isn’t unthinkable that Dr. McCoy would be aware of him as well. He could have even sought him out to offer a compliment, or say something with regards to his talent.”

“Not a chance,” Jim said. “Bones. Bones?”

Spock nodded. Jim toyed with a rook, rocking it back and forth. Spock observed him, the wicked flash of his eyes as he thought, puzzling the situation out. He wondered, for a countless time, what he would see if he peered into his mind.

Something inscrutable, certainly. He was still investigating every day what made Jim tick, and there wasn’t much to show for it even after two years. Jim was taking a long time to uncover. It was disconcerting. Here he was, Chief Science Officer on the grandest ship in the fleet, and Jim Kirk, human being, was proving to be the great, grand, experiment.

Humans, in general, were a constant source of his contemplation.

The forwardness of Chekov’s mind, for instance, had been startling to Spock. He blamed it on his age. While Chekov was more than worthy of his intellect and his position, he still lacked the emotional control of adulthood. It had the appearance of something that couldn’t be helped. Spock’s experience had been something like reaching into  quicksand. He dug around for what he looked for, but everywhere he looked Chekov’s infatuation poured into the recess his hand created. After flailing around, unprepared, Spock had taken a slower, more steady approach and sifted through the distraction to reach what he wanted.

The chorus of Doctor McCoy. A tidal wave of feeling, intense and complicated and inconsistent and the mishmash of corresponding images. McCoy, almost always from afar, observed with Chekov’s inane scientific eye, with great speculation and caution and affection with no real root, as though, even for Chekov himself, it was shocking. This...crush….as Jim had put it, springing from nowhere. Out of thin air, almost. A constant mystery, and a source of incomprehensible wonder that boiled into a clot of childish insecurity. The chant of _does he know_ rattling around like a box being shook. Embarrassment, frustration, a tangled coil of threads knotted in the back of Chekov’s head, one he worked tirelessly to untangle.  
  
The undercurrent of attraction that Spock had indignantly shoved aside as he waded through it all.

There was another, unbearable, thing there too. Equally present in Chekov’s mind, and far more personal.

Spock had drawn away from it like he’d been burned. The slow, syrupy, water-logged echo of _I lost her_ had also been ringing in Spock’s ears for the past few days.

The thought of Chekov suffering had not once entered his mind in all his months on duty with him. He hadn’t even paid attention at the moment. It could have been anyone at the transporter console; prior to his venture into Chekov’s mind he may not even have been able to accurately note who it was if he had been asked. 

It only comforted him to know that even in the deepest moments of his grief he had treated Chekov like any other crew member - for the sake of the ship, for his position, for everything. The logical response to proceed as usual. He had never blamed him in the first place. Surely the ensign knew that it was no one’s fault.

But there it was, this stinging, wounded, thing that limped between the two of them. A great deal of shame, something Spock was humiliatingly familiar with. And now, he considered, Chekov knew that he knew. The superior officer he had disappointed so gravely before now knew his most intimate secrets. It was an odd and unexpected connection. One he had never, in wildest fantasy, anticipated.

“Spock, this is almost too easy,” Jim said, jolting Spock from the web of thoughts. His face was practically villainous.

On the contrary, Spock thought. This is not simple at all. It all felt quite large. Too much involved, too much pesky, fragile, emotion  to land in the lap of one so patently emotionless.

Jim chuckled, giddy at the prospect of torturing his friend at the expense of what he now found to be a glorious joke.

“Oh, I’m going to have fun with this,” he snickered.

Spock felt incredibly responsible.

If he could have taken it all back, he certainly would have for it was sure to be inordinate amounts of trouble. 


	2. tennessee waltz // jo stafford

ii

 

“Sulu!” Riley shot his hand up over his head, waving. The yell seemed to land right in Pavel’s ear, even though he was still frozen in the doorway, slightly behind him. He leaned forward only a little to peer over Kevin’s shoulder into the small house, the sound system buzzing the bassline so loudly it rattled the window casements. The party was packed to the roof with cadets, and it was uncanny to see them all out of uniform and sloshing through the front hallway like sea foam.

“Sulu,” Riley repeated as the fresh-faced classmate waded towards them. “It’s me!”

The older cadet came to a stop right in front of them, holding up his hand for Riley to slap.

“Glad you could make it!” Pavel saw him say, and Riley said something muffled by the music.  

“You’re the one who won the marathon, right?” Sulu said loudly, flashing an amiable smile right at  Pavel when Riley moved aside.

“Da – ah, I mean yes,” Pavel fumbled, catching up.  His cheeks went warm. It was difficult to tell if Sulu truly recognized him or not; the astrogation section they’d shared a few semesters ago had certainly been large enough for Pavel to disappear into.

“Congratulations,” Sulu laughed, and Pavel smiled in an attempt to seem more gracious. It didn’t matter now that he’d won the marathon and _everyone_ knew who he was to some extent.

“It was nothing,” Pavel said, shrugging a little, hurrying the subject along. It was still strange, even after a few   
months, to have so much sudden attention from his peers. Most were like Sulu and completely unaware he had even existed. Unlike Taganrog, or even Moscow, there was no shortage of prodigies at Starfleet with an entire universe to pool from, and he was not the only one with talent. Most cadets were so concerned with their own success they didn’t pause to wonder and speculate over Pavel. It was only when something like the marathon occurred, or the unfortunate times he happened to beat them academically, that suddenly everyone was interested in the sixteen year old that had been attending class with them.

“They said in the article that you’re the youngest to ever win!” Sulu continued, and Pavel grimaced.

“Yes, this is true,” he nodded along. “I, ah, got to meet Admiral Archer.”

“The Admiral? That is so cool,” Sulu marveled, crossing his arms and shaking his head. He kept grinning at him, which made Pavel self-conscious, but it was all in good fun. He remembered Sulu from astrogation as a mild but popular student; self-disciplined at the subject but not so much to make him stuffy. He was always chatting with somebody when Pavel had seen him before class, and now Pavel was a little flustered that the somebody was him.

“Pavel is the youngest human here,” Riley chimed in, before Hikaru could ask Pavel to continue. He flashed Sulu a shit-eating grin “Younger than me by four months!”

“Well maybe you could learn a thing or two,” Sulu joked, tossing his head in a way that made a few strands of his black hair flick over his forehead. Riley guffawed, slinging his arm around Pavel’s shoulders, their heads knocking together.

“Ayy…” Pavel hissed, wincing and wriggling when Riley ruffled the mop of curls on top of his head.

“I like to think of us as partners in crime,” Riley chirped, letting Pavel recover from the abuse.

“Well, someone has to be the brains of the operation,” Sulu laughed again, shaking his head and winking when Pavel caught his eye. “Drinks are out back and downstairs we’ve got some pretty toxic punch – so help yourselves!” Sulu pointed behind him to the sliding glass doors where groups of cadets were pushing in and out and then to an open door at the end of the hall that lead to what had to be a basement.

“It’s good to meet you, finally!” Sulu said cheerfully, once Pavel had mapped out the lay of the house from what he could see. Pavel would have said thank you, or you too, or something, but someone called Sulu’s name and the young man turned, dissolving into the party.

“Cool right?” Riley shouted. "I told you you'd like him!"

“Yes,"  he yelled back eventually, and Riley grinned, pulling Pavel out of the way of a cluster of girls weaving through the dim hallway. They all seemed so much older, especially with their features so shadowed. Pavel pushed himself nearer to Riley, giving them as much room as he could, glancing at them as they went by.

“Oh damn,” came Kevin’s voice, unnaturally close to Pavel’s ear. “That was Rand – Janice!”

Pavel wanted to reach out and tell him to wait till Pavel at least recognized someone, but Kevin was already shoving in the direction the girls had gone. From the flashing lights coming from another room Pavel could barely make out Janice’s high-bunned blonde hair and then Riley’s dark head following behind her. Pavel couldn’t blame him; Janice was the reason Riley had dragged him there in the first place.

“It’ll be good for you too, right? Cut loose after exams! Actually _talk_ to some people…” Kevin had said a few nights ago, pulling off his uniform jacket and slipping into the grey standard-issue t-shirt he slept in. Pavel had scowled at his PADD, knees drawn up on his bed.

“I talk to people,” he’d muttered absently, tapping the screen to fill in the numbers on one of his puzzles.

“Professors don’t count, Pav…” Riley laughed, flopping down onto his covers and putting his hands on his stomach. He turned his head on the mattress to stare at his roommate.

“I talk to you, don’t I,” Pavel continued, clicking another cell. “And professors _do_ count – I have a good relationship vith them…”  
  
Riley snorted and rolled his head back to look at the ceiling, legs kicking absently where they hung over the edge of the bed.

“It’ll be cool for you to meet Hikaru – that’s Sulu. The one I’ve told you about. He’s really cool.”

Pavel rolled his eyes at his friend’s moony tone. Ever since Hikaru Sulu had passed his flight examinations Riley had been all over him, hoping they’d be commissioned to the same ship. Pavel bit his tongue; he'd of course known of Sulu, but not like Riley apparently.

Now, stranded, Pavel was thinking that this was less about Riley's concern for his social life and more an opportunity for Pavel to play witness to Riley's burgeoning popularity. It didn't matter. He was there, he might as well attempt to join in a little. Keep an eye on Kevin, or at least prove he wasn't the wet blanket that he was accused of being.

It was true. Exams had turned into him somewhat of a grump and the release of pressure he felt when they were over was significant. He waded through the rest of the party, excusing himself even though half of the cadets were too drunk to care and the other half hadn't heard him in the first place. When he reached the basement door he found that it was much quieter down below and there were significantly less people. As he jogged down the steps he looked over the banister and could even see gaps in the floor between the clusters of socializing cadets.  
  
Glancing around he saw the table where cups and a cauldron of the nefarious looking brew Sulu had mentioned were stationed. He eagerly poured himself some and sniffed it hesitantly. His nose wrinkled. It was certainly a concoction; fruit floated innocently on the top, masking the distinct smell that reminded him a little too much of citrus disinfectant.  
  
"Careful, it's killer!" some tipsy cadet said, shouldering up to him when they saw what he had in his hand. They clumsily ladled more into their own cup and offered it to Pavel to toast.   
  
"To the end of fucking finals," they warbled. "More like they fucked me, honestly..."  
  
Pavel laughed and they both took a gulp. His ears were nearly ringing from the heat, but Pavel wasn't about to show it. He grinned and the other cadet coughed and wiped their mouth.

"To fucking, either way," they announced, tripping back towards wherever they had come from.

Pavel felt a blush crawl up his neck. It wasn't so bad, even without Riley. He took a few more moments to people watch before he went off to go find his wayward roommate. Rand was clearly uninterested, and considered him the eternal pest, but leave it to Kevin to not take a hint.

He heard the heavy squeal of someone coming down the steps to the basement, and the thump of feet on the poured concrete floor.

The person cast a tall shadow over him, blocking out the brightly colored LCD display that had been set up for the   
party.

"Hey -"

Pavel turned away from the table; he was staring smack into the chest of whoever it was. They wore a plain black shirt   
and a leather jacket over top - cracked at the seams and frayed at the piping with use.

"You heard of Jim Kirk?"

Pavel's eyes snapped up to their face. He tightened his hand instinctively on his drink. The man was scowling darkly down him. Pavel knew it wasn't meant for him, per-say. The man - and Pavel had seen him before, many times - was much older than the rest of the cadets. It was clear from his expression that the whole situation was inane, that he had been dragged there against his will. Pavel could easily empathize.

It was strange, knowing someone and not. While most fell over themselves to get Jim Kirk's attention Pavel had always let his eyes stray to his near constant companion. The handsome doctor. McCoy, he remembered Riley saying in his ear. Jim Kirk's confidant, though it often appeared like he was more of his zoo keeper, or parole officer.

  
And now Pavel could see the blurry line of his serious brow, the tense set of his strong jaw, his dark eyes glaring down on him.

"He's a fucking idiot? Bout ye' high?" The doctor gestured roughly at the air beside him to describe his constant ward.

Pavel nodded his head up and down. Yes, of course he knew Jim Kirk. Who didn't know Jim Kirk?

"Have you seen him?"

Pavel shook his head. McCoy squinted at him in the dark, and the flintiness of his face softened a little.

"Aren't you that kid who won the...whatever?"

He stepped closer to allow someone to pass behind him and Pavel could smell his cologne, could see the shadow of stubble on his chin. His palm was sweating and he wiped it nervously on his pants.

"The marathon," Pavel corrected, and McCoy nodded.

"Yeah, right. That. You're, what? Fourteen?"

"Sixteen."

"Jesus..." he said, voice low and gruff and the heat of the drink was no longer the reason his face felt so hot. He was cornered, trapped in the uncomfortable space of attraction he shouldn't have. A man this old, at a party like this. He wished Riley would appear and save him the never-ending embarrassment.

"I'm too old for this shit," McCoy said, pushing his hair back. He nodded his head at the cup in Pavel's hand. "What the hell is that?"

"Ah - punch," Pavel said simply, holding it up. McCoy gave it a disdainful look and Pavel felt his mouth twitch into a nervous smile. "I am not used to things this sweet..."

"Sweet? I can smell it from here," the man marveled. "But good luck finding bourbon in this place..." He stepped around and ladled it into a cup and Pavel couldn't help but watch him do it. McCoy straightened up, took a sip and winced.

"That is jet fuel," he coughed. "You kids need to learn how to drink."

"It's not my party," Pavel shrugged, tapping his fingers on his own cup. The man made a noncommittal grunt. "Only wodka at my party..." Pavel went on, eager to impress. The older man shook his head.

"That ain't any better," he said. "Wodka..." he muttered with a crooked smile, taking another wincing drink.   
  
Pavel drew himself up haughtily. He could feel the speech coming on, but he was sadly interrupted by an Orion girl appearing at the top of the staircase.

"Jim is going to jump off the roof!" she yelled, and the excitement in her voice precluded any fear. "Into the pool!"

"Gaila!" McCoy shouted and she looked towards him.

"Oh, Bones! There you are! Come on! He's really going to do it -"

"You tell that asshole to get down right now before he gives himself a concussion!" he yelled back at her, slamming his cup back down on the table and stomping up the stairs towards her.

"It wasn't my idea," Gaila said innocently, and Pavel watched the older man shove through the doorway and disappear.    
  
People clamored up the stairs after him, eager to see what Gaila had fortold. There was a collective sound from above Pavel's head, no doubt cadets egging Kirk on.  
  
"Pav!" Pavel looked up at the top of the steps. "Pav, come on!" Kevin yelled and Pavel nodded, turning to set his drink back down on the table.

He glanced at the cup that McCoy had used for a second longer and then went to jog up the stairs to Riley's side.  
  
Outside, Pavel found himself smushed between Riley and the cadet in front of him as they all stared up at the rooftop of the bungalow.

Jim Kirk teetered uncertainly, a blue bottle in his hand. He was barefoot and his pants were cuffed messily halfway up his calves. The bottle emanated a soft bio-luminescent glow, that made Jim's teeth appear very white when he opened his mouth to laugh down at the crowd.

"Jim!"  
  
Pavel could hear McCoy's voice from the front, on the other side of the pool.

"Get your sorry, stubborn, _impudent_ ass down here right the fuck now!" he yelled. Jim tipped his head back and laughed, holding his stomach.  
  
"Bones it's two stories what could go wrong?" he jabbered. "I'm here to give the people what they want!" 

The crowd cheered. Someone yelled _do it_ amid the general hooting. Pavel looked up at him and couldn't help but smile. Jim Kirk grinned down on them. Bones' voice rose, but before it could protest any more Jim rocked back and took a flying leap off the roof, the bottle arcing out of his hand and smashing against the patio. There was a great splash, a spray of water, and Pavel could only guess what pose he had taken when he entered the pool, sinking to the bottom and then kicking up to an eruption of screams and yells from his adoring public.

Through the gaps of people's bodies Pavel saw McCoy yanking Jim out of the water by the crook of his arm, Jim staggering and his clothes sagging all over from the wet. He laughed at McCoy and grappled him into a soggy hug. McCoy let him, shoving him off after a moment, back into the water when he was satisfied that he was alright.

There was a quirk to McCoy's mouth as other cadets cannon balled into the pool with their beloved mascot, Jim's guffawing rising above the sounds of splashes and laughter.  
  
The quiet and intimate affection in his eyes - McCoy's eyes - as he looked down at the water, at Jim Kirk, made emotion well up in Pavel's body. McCoy never sensed his stare and his eyes never strayed from Kirk and the soft lap of the water against the pool's smooth edges.   
  
"He's insane," Riley said, and Pavel snapped his head back to his friend. Pavel felt immediately embarrassed. Here he was, no better than Kevin, ignoring everything around him. 

"Actually, he scores wery well," Pavel said with consideration and Riley nodded. The teenagers watched from the outskirts of the partygoers, suddenly aware of their age, their smallness compared to the others. It was a feeling neither was unfamiliar with, but  it was alright as long as they had each other. In many ways it was actually exciting. They were young, but they were unnoticed for the most part, which was far better than being treated as the pet of some professor, or gloated over like they were still small children, or hated by older and unimpressed peers.  
  
"Do you think he'll do it? Become a captain in three years," Riley whispered, and Pavel watched Jim Kirk do a wobbly handstand in the pool. He opened his mouth to say something back, but the words were lost.

Suddenly, the ground began to shake. An earthquake? Someone screamed. He reached out to grab for Riley, but he stalled, watching as the cadets were all haloed in transport beams. The ground crumbled, the pool started to fall away into a vast chasm.   
  
The cadets all slipped right out of the rings, and across the gap, on the other side, stood Spock, hands behind his back, watching him -

Pavel’s eyes flew open. He stared at the ceiling of his room. He let out the breath he had been holding in when he woke. The alarm chimed pleasantly; on the wall over his desk the telescreen displayed the temperature and the time and star date.  
  
“Alarm, off,” he croaked and the chime faded away. The digital readout flicked, replaced by a summary of his vital signs during his sleep. He had completed two full REM cycles -   
  
He ignored the computer’s droning about his blood pressure and his pulse.  He wanted to roll over and bury himself in his pillow for the rest of his life - anything except go back to the bridge. He’d been able to dodge it for the past few days, picking up shifts in engineering and letting others fill in, but Kirk had _insisted_ , and he knew he couldn’t get away with avoiding Spock any longer without admitting something.

Scotty, too, was growing weary of Pavel stepping on his shadow.

“I cannae hardly think with you hovering,” he’d scolded the day before. “Don’t get me wrong, I love havin’ you laddie, but you’re makin’ me a wee bit crazy...”  
  
He’d said this while patting Pavel on the shoulder in a brotherly way, which had let Pavel know he wasn’t too exasperated with him.

As anxious as he was, he missed being at the helm. He missed Sulu’s quiet jokes and Uhura’s absent minded humming when she was too focused to realize she was doing it. He missed the restless way Kirk shifted around and the random declarations he made and stories he told when he was bored.

He missed the sigh of the doors opening and the way McCoy’s boots tapped across the floor as he went to  stand at Kirk’s side, arms crossed. He missed the rush he got listening to them ruffle each other’s feathers and the way his heart would beat funny in his chest. How he always looked at the console, and never turned around, but could imagine his expressions -

He remembered he was still in bed, and that his report time was in less than an hour and resigned himself to his fate. What is the worst that could happen? It isn’t as if anybody knew - Sulu had checked on him a few times, but only out of concern for him. Not to pry.

Uhura had snatched his arm while he was walking in the cafeteria and given him a thorough once over and told him he better be feeling alright. She, of all people, knew that Spock could be a bit much. She couldn’t even imagine having him poke around in her head.   
  
“It was brave of you to speak up,” she’d said, kissing him gently on the cheek. It sent Pavel stuttering and flushing like an idiot, but he _had_ promised he’d be back up to the bridge as soon as he’d finished what he’d started doing for Scotty in the interim (a harmless lie).

Neither of them indicated they knew - so what was he so worried about? He could  stay out of Spock’s way the same as he usually did. It wasn’t as if it was difficult to do.

As he thought his body automatically settled into its  routine, the ideas circling while he showered and dressed and hastily ate one of the meal replacement bars stashed in his night table drawer.

He paused in putting on his shirt, his head stuck halfway in it, coming to something of a conclusion. Maybe he was making this all up. All this running away was what had served to make him look childish...it wasn’t as if Spock had gone around bragging.

He tugged the gold shirt down and freed himself, wriggling to get the arms comfortable over the black shirt underneath. He glanced at himself in the mirror attached to the inside of his built-in armoire door. A lanky teenager looked back; bright eyed, curls frizzed just a little.  
  
It wasn’t catastrophic.   
  
The lanky teenager with the unruly hair and long nimble fingers was a helmsman of the Starship Enterprise under Captain Kirk, the most exciting captain in the fleet.

He’d already seen two disasters and managed to make it out alive. What was this compared to any of that?  

He blanched at himself in the mirror.. He remembered the nightmare, Spock’s stern features, the way it all seemed to cave in under him, all falling away into the unknown and his expression morphed into something he couldn’t quite figure out.

Maybe the Captain had been right and he was scrambled.

He sighed and fussed with the front of his hair compulsively.    
  
A bit stuck up after being worried and he thought, begrudgingly, of his mother telling him over and over not to touch because it only ever  made it worse.  


* * *

 

  
The good thing was his report time was always earlier than the other station’s, which at least meant he’d already be there when Kirk and Spock showed up.

  
“Pav!” Sulu grinned at him as he took his seat. “I was wondering if we’d lost you to engineering forever.”

“No, not quite,” Pavel laughed lightly, hastily entering in his codes and scrolling through the memos and logs. He scowled after a moment, squinting at the screen.   
  
“We’ve barely moved,” he muttered and Sulu leaned back in his chair.

“Things have gotten a little tied up,” he explained. “Something something federation orders, something else,” he waved his hand, and smiled. “You know, the usual.”

Pavel nodded his head, babysitting the system while it calibrated.

“Haven’t seen you at the gym either,” Sulu continued, leaning his elbow on the console and looking at him. Pavel tapped a cue on the screen.   
  
“Too sore,” he explained. “Scotty had me swapping core parts all week my legs are useless…”

“Well don’t fall behind, Chekov - wouldn’t want you losing that perfect runner’s physique. Also, you owe me a rematch,” Sulu jabbed the air between them. He was referring to his disgusting defeat at who could run the longest, a challenge that was almost laughably easy for Pavel to win.

Pavel wrinkled his nose at the comment and rolled his eyes.  A run did sound nice; after his shift, definitely.

“Finally, you’re back,” Uhura said with a dramatic groan as she strolled onto the bridge. Pavel glanced over his shoulder at her, Sulu craning his neck. She was polished as ever and smiling slyly at him as she leaned up and flipped on her station, placing the receiver into her ear.

“Is Riley that bad?” Pavel joked, turning back to the console.   
  
“Oh, trust me,” Uhura sighed, leaning down to check something. “I’m not letting you go anywhere ever again…”

“He likes her,” Sulu stage-whispered and Pavel had to bite back his laugh. He could only imagine Kevin swooning at Uhura and trying desperately to win her attention.

“Don’t joke,” she snapped, but it was all play. “There isn’t anything worse than a kid with a crush…”

Pavel’s smile shrank and he busied himself with the console. He had managed to forget for a moment. But it was going well, he had to admit.

The rest of the crew slowly filled in, and then, right on time, came Spock and Kirk, one after the other.   
  
“Mr. Chekov,” Kirk said, dripping with enthusiasm. He clapped his hands on Pavel’s shoulders and Pavel jumped a little. “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he grinned, baring down on him.   
  
“Good to be back, sir,” he admitted, trying to sound cheerful and sure of himself, and trying even harder not to let his eyes flick over to where Spock was bent over his own station. Jim gave his shoulders a brisk rub and then stepped back, flopping into his chair with a contented sigh.   
  
The king was in a good mood with all his knights in order again.

From there he fell into his work. They were being allowed to move for the first time in a bit, or so it seemed by the way everyone was acting. There was a buzzing tension on the bridge, and Pavel was relieved he was able to lose himself in it rather than be its source. By the time the end of the shift rolled around, the whole debacle was a distant memory. He leaned back from the console, stretching his arms over his head.

The jog he had planned would feel good after sitting for so long.  
  
He was just about to ask Sulu if he wanted to eat before, when Kirk said his name.

“Mr. Chekov, could I borrow you for a moment?” he asked. Pavel swiveled around, and Kirk was smiling. In his hands was a PADD, and Janice Rand was staring confusedly between them, waiting for Kirk to sign off on whatever it was she’d given him.  
  
Sulu and Uhura had both turned to look at them; the only person who had not paid any immediate attention was Spock.   
  
“Certainly,” Pavel said, smiling and standing. Kirk glanced down at the PADD and hurriedly swirled his signature over it, speaking as he did so.

“Could you run these reports down to medical and make sure that Dr. McCoy signs off on them?”

“Captain, those are usually just sent - ” Janice began, and Kirk gave her a dizzying smolder.

“Don’t worry Rand, I need you to do something else for me - I’m sure Chekov won’t mind filling in.”

Pavel was sure that he was still dreaming, that the nightmare from that morning had simply changed venues and any moment he would jolt awake.

“P-pardon,” he said, disbelieving that the words were coming out of Kirk’s mouth. “Doctor...McCoy...Captain?”

“The one and only,” Jim said, eyebrows lifting. He held the PADD out to him and Pavel stared at it where it hung in his hand. “Make sure you get this to him personally - if a nurse handles it we may not get it till next week. And make sure you let him know this is _urgent_.”

Pavel watched his own two hands reach out and take the PADD. His head slowly turned to Spock. The vulcan was deeply, deeply, deeply, engrossed in whatever it was he was looking at, his figure statuesque and ignoring the entire exchange.

He looked back to Kirk. His face had twisted up in delight, as though he could barely contain whatever it was he was dying to say. His eyes bore holes into Chekov’s and Chekov felt as though he was liquefying and whatever was left of him would start running out of his shoes.

Pavel’s eyes widened as the implication of it all began to bubble to the surface. He stared helplessly at Kirk - it was unreal. Kirk’s smug face was lit up like the fourth of July.

“Thank you, Mr. Chekov,” he said, his hand landing heavily on Pavel’s shoulder. They stared at each other, Kirk knowing, and Pavel knowing he knew, and that Spock had told him, and that Spock knew, he _definitely knew_ \- and

He nodded, vaguely, like he was being puppeted. Yes, right. Go to the Medbay, hand the PADD to McCoy. Go for a jog. No, no, eat first -

Kirk’s hand fell away.

Pavel found himself walking, past Spock, past Uhura, past Kirk, past the offended and suspicious Rand, off the bridge. He went to the lift, which was full, and slid in in front of two crew members talking animatedly. He waited, the PADD clutched tightly in his hands, following the back of a security member who seemed to have hurt his ankle, as he was limping slightly, to the Medbay.

He stood there, stupidly, holding the PADD, until a nurse came over and gave him an odd look.

“Do you need something?” she was attempting to be courteous, but they all looked quite busy and he was no doubt taking up time and space just waiting.

“The Captain - he told me...Dr. McCoy…” he uselessly held out the PADD and she glanced at it.

“Those things? Why did he send you? He could have just messaged them.”

Pavel repeated himself, his pallid face slowly becoming a deep red. She nodded and shrugged. Who knew.

“The doctor’s in his office at the moment - straight back there. You can give them to him...Wait, ma’am, no no you can’t go yet! Hold on…” the nurse pushed around Pavel and went to a xenoid who appeared to be in some kind of daze - they were wandering out of the Medbay, still in their gown. Pavel slowly walked between the people darting around, dodging the curious looks of the other nurses and orderlies.

He walked till he came to the narrow hallway at the back of the space - a janitorial and supply closet, and then, another door half cracked with “Leonard H. McCoy, M.D.” on it. He white knuckled the edges of the PADD and tried to swallow, to make his mouth less dry.

He would just do this...this fool’s errand, this absolutely barbaric thing, and then he would go. That was it. Humor Kirk, and maybe he’d have his fill. Never, for the life of him, speak to Spock ever again...

He straightened himself up and lifted his hand, knocking on the door.

“Ah…” he began, not getting any reply. He cleared his throat. “Doctor McCoy?”

“It’s open.”

Pavel froze, hand still poised to knock again. Regaining himself, he pushed the door open more and slid inside. 

The doctor’s office was small, and crowded. There was a built in cabinet of a desk, surrounded by a maze of shelves and cubbies. It didn’t look like a doctor’s office, but more like the kind of office a school nurse might have. Small, informal. Bland white and blank walls, save for the telescreen which shimmered in its off-mode. There was a drooping, wilted, plant in a huge pot beside a few plastic chairs and a cart that had some jerry-rigged replicator on it and a mess of utensils underneath.

Pavel found himself standing right beside the edge of the desk. He was there, obviously, though he hadn’t looked up from what he was doing. He signed something with a quick flick of his wrist. There was music coming from something; the telescreen or the small sleek dome on one of the shelves. Country music. Old country music.

“Can I help you?”

Pavel opened his mouth, stumbling over the words.

“The Captain - he...he sent me to give this to you. He said it was…” he trailed off. McCoy had finally looked up and was obviously dissatisfied with what he saw. He glanced at Pavel, at the PADD he was clutching, and back up. He pushed back in his chair and turned so he was facing him more fully.

“Urgent,” Pavel finished, weakly, holding the PADD out for him to take. McCoy took it and began scrolling through the documents, the furrow in his brow getting deeper and deeper.

“Urgent, my ass,” he growled and Pavel tried to present himself as normal. “These are all…” he said to himself, shaking his head. “How many damn times do I have to tell him to stop signing this shit before I approve it…”

He suddenly looked up at Pavel, as though he had already forgotten he was still there.

“You tell him to stop dicking me around when you give this back and _remind_ him I have more than enough work to do down here.Verbatim.”

Pavel nodded up and down, and McCoy squinted at him. 

“And why the hell did he send you? Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Pavel could tell that the doctor smelled a rat, his voice stinging just a little. After all, this wasn’t Pavel’s idea. He wanted to say that, to apologize. Please, he was just a victim in this too.

“I don’t...I’m just following orders,” Pavel was all he could manage.  “A favor.”

“Hmm,” was all McCoy said, looking back to whatever it was Kirk had given him.  “Well, it’s going to be a while. You can blame his sorry ass for that.”

“Should I ...should I go?” Pavel asked and McCoy waved his hand at the plastic chairs behind him.

“You stay where I can see you, for now…”

Pavel felt his flush spread down under his collar. There wasn’t any doubt that McCoy barely knew who he was. Outside of Jim, and Spock and Uhura he wasn’t well acquainted with the rest of the crew. He mostly ever saw the back of Pavel’s head.

He didn’t remember the party that balmy night, when Kirk had jumped off the roof and for a few seconds it had only been the two of them sharing the strange space of not belonging. He probably didn’t even remember asking him, again, how old he was during the Narada incident.

Pavel only ever saw him once every few months for examination, and then it was mostly just a follow-up and him writing off on things.

He slowly lowered himself into the plastic chair in McCoy’s office. He looked around again, at the brands of condiments by the replicator and the half open cabinet with an amber bottle peeking out. His eyes strayed to the way McCoy’s feet were set so wide apart under his desk. He looked up at the ceiling, and when he grew tired of this, he looked at the plant that was in desperate need of watering, and when he had his fill he tried to pick out the words in the weepy song still playing.  
  
McCoy worked, diligently signing and reading, but he was extremely quiet. He didn’t sigh or mutter to himself, which, for some reason, Pavel had always imagined him doing when he dared to imagine such things.  
  
So Pavel watched him. Because it was a rare opportunity, and he wasn’t an idiot. Because he was selfish, and wanted to know. Because he needed more fodder for his imagination, and, most importantly, he liked him. He liked McCoy. He liked the slight shift of his shoulders and the constant flick of his stylus - his thick wrist and large hands. The neatly cut dark hair at the back of his neck, parted and laid down in the front, professional and old fashioned.   
  
Somewhere, in all his anxiety and all the shuffle, he had forgotten just how far that affection for McCoy stretched. He had forgotten how attractive he was, how noble he seemed to be despite his ill temper. It was something about his posture, the way he carried himself, that had drawn Pavel’s eye away from Kirk. He had a lot of pride, Pavel knew.

It was something he always thought they had in common, or would, if the opportunity to get to know each other ever presented itself.

Pavel had never been so close for such a long while. He could smell his cologne, that strong scent he never entirely forgot. The minutes stretched and Pavel spied on him, looking into this very small and intimate window. He never dreamed, in a thousand years, that he would be there, like this.

He wouldn’t need anything else, he thought. Whatever Spock or Kirk or anyone did to torture him it didn’t matter anymore. So long as he remembered these quiet few minutes watching him work, without having to speak, or know what to say, or anything.

McCoy, handsome and serious, not paying him any mind and Pavel not minding, just content to witness it. He knew now that he had a flimsy signature, that he was focused, that he listened to tinny cowboy music.  
  
He forgot to water his plant, and was a bit disorganized. He kept a spare uniform in the tall cabinet - he could see, from the blue shirt just barely caught in the seam of the door. That every so often he lifted his arms and rested his hands on the back of his head to stretch, the thick blunt fingers lacing together as he mulled something over.

He could have watched him for the rest of his life without complaint, and never worried what McCoy thought of him.

It was a good hurt that he felt; a lovely, tender,  ache.

He was so caught up in it that he almost didn’t hear McCoy.

“Finally,” he said, drawing back from his work. “All that trouble for no reason…”

Pavel assumed he was referring to Kirk’s impatient and preemptive signatures. The doctor stood, a little stiffly, and groaned, popping his back. He gathered up some of it and put it away, and then picked up the PADD and turned, holding it for Pavel to receive.

“You eaten yet?” he asked, fixing his stare on Pavel. Pavel blinked.

“No,” he started. “Not yet.”

“Well, might as well come with me, then,” he remarked, reaching up and tapping the little silver speaker so the sound faded away. Pavel wasn’t sure he understood.  “That damn replicator Scotty gave me can’t even make a cup of coffee without going on the fritz…”

“I could fix it!”

Pavel stopped, shocked at himself. McCoy stopped arranging his desk to consider him. He smirked.

“That’s alright, it’s as ornery as I am. But thank you for the offer,” he said, and Pavel’s knees were weak, my God, the sound of his voice like that - the drawl of it, like honey slipping off a spoon, and what a fool he was because he couldn’t say anything back, and McCoy had already turned away again -

“No doubt we’ll run into that idiot and he’ll have to fess up to this whole thing,” he continued. “Besides, if you’re with me maybe I won’t have to bother with that pointy eared bastard if we don’t…”

He went to the door, opening it a bit into the hall, and still Pavel didn’t know if he had heard right - if the man was really asking him to lunch, by some strange trick of fate, or bizarre whim -

“After you,” he said bluntly, gesturing out the door.

Sure, Pavel thought.

It figured.


	3. good friends, good whiskey & good lovin // hank williams jr.

iii

 

McCoy wasn't a health nut, by any stretch of the imagination, but the fair share of knowledge he had about human physiology compelled him to at least try when it came to balancing his lifestyle. Today's fair share meant punching in the code for a bowl of what would have looked better in his mother's flower bed. He set the tray on the table, trying not to act like a five year old about it.

Two years ago the closest thing to a salad he could have agreed to was the quarter cup of slaw they dumped next to a mound of fried chicken, but,  nowadays the lack of fresh air for exercising and the friendliness of booze had him compensating.

Whatever the reason, he felt like he was sacrificing a pillar of who he was.  

"Thousands of years of progress," he rumbled, stabbing his fork into the roughage over and over so that the thin dressing would coat all of it. "Nuclear fission, and they can't come up with anything better than this to keep you from dying..."

Over his voice rose the chattering and complaining of everyone else still in line for the replicators. Most stood  in pairs or trios, swapping meal cards and bemoaning the day’s limited menu. Only officers and those with stricter dietary requirements were allowed to choose anything outside of the day’s pre-selected ten choices. Even though Starfleet kept rigorously to its code of diversity, it couldn’t please everyone all the time.

Across from him the ensign - Chekov - was poking through his curry with a similar disdain.

"They're not so good with this either," he sighed, stirring in some of the rice in a resigned way. "I want a pirogi..."

“Didn’t your mother tell you to eat your vegetables?” McCoy said, spearing something leafy and chewing it halfheartedly.  
  
Chekov grimaced.

“Yes, but  _ you _ told me to up my calories,” he scooped the mixture into his mouth and chewed. He shrugged, satisfied. In the silence that followed he glanced up, shyly, only to find that the doctor was too busy studying him, his eyes roaming over whatever he could see above the line of the tabletop.

“That’s right. The runner. Ridiculous metabolism,” he shook his head at the diagnoses, and returned to glowering at his food.

“What I’d give to be your age, eat whatever I wanted,” he continued, picking through the vegetables for something to please him. “You’re, what, eighteen now?”

“Nineteen,” Chekov said, automatically, and McCoy looked across at him. His cheeks were ruddy, and the petulance from before had been replaced by a kind of vague disappointment.  

“Trust me, it’s all the same once you hit thirty,” McCoy grumbled, drawing back. He felt a prick when he saw the look on the kid's face. He probably got asked shit like that all the time, and Bones was positive he had been guilty of it more than once. It was just too easy to forget someone so bright eyed was out there among all the haggard officers and bullshit Bones saw on a daily basis. He couldn't be blamed if it was always a bit of a surprise. Still, who was he to talk when here he was barely keeping his body from falling apart  within the next few decades.

He had to give the kid credit; it wasn't a walk in the park to deal with the bullshit and bluster of sour old cynics like him.

He tried to tackle all the cherry tomatoes in the bowl at once - they were his least favorite. It was better to eat it quick and get it over with rather than linger and remember there was absolutely nothing standing between him and getting a thick slice of peach pie or pork chops. 

“Pavel, right?” McCoy said, trying to make up for being an ass and distract from his lunch. If Chekov got asked every day how old he was, he could probably count on one hand the amount of times anyone followed it up. He punctuated the statement by shoveling some more salad into his mouth, making a decent dent in it.

"Andreievich," Chekov said, swallowing.  

"Pavel Andreievich," McCoy tried, chewing the syllables and breaking apart a halo of red onion with his fork. Chekov's lips screwed up, like he was trying not to correct him, or - even worse - laugh at the sound of it coming out of McCoy's homegrown Georgia mouth. "Big name for a beanpole like you."

The tension that Chekov had been carrying for the duration of the meal went a little slack. His posture, ramrod straight till now, relaxed into his chair, and he put his elbow on the table, still picking through his food.  
  
"It means humble," he said, smiling a little. "Other boys teased and said it only meant small, but they didn't know the difference."

"Still a mouthful," McCoy grouched. “You’ve got that, what do they call it, patronymic.” 

McCoy dropped his fork in the bowl that was finally empty with a clank and pushed the tray away. The very prospect of eating another salad was offensive after what he'd just endured. He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest and fighting the urge to yawn. There was still about a half hour to kill before he had to go slog through another mile of bureaucratic nonsense. A whole day lost every week just to sift through chart notes and update the system and file inventory requests - he'd rather screw a hole right into his head with no anesthesia.

Two catastrophes into their five year mission meant there wasn't much Starfleet could spare in the way of a capable assistant, especially out in bum fuck nowhere, which is where they happened to be most of the time. They knew better than to give him a joint chief. They'd have to pry that responsibility out of his cold dead hands. He couldn't trust anyone with that. If it weren't for the nurses he'd have lost his mind, but nurses were always more talented than doctors. There were at least three he'd let perform surgery if it was allowed outside of emergencies.

"Well," McCoy said, breaking the quiet. "What's your old man do?. Some kind of physicist? Mother play classical piano? Cousin in parliament?"

Pavel blushed at the scrutiny, and McCoy noticed he had already cleared three fourths of his plate while he was lost in thought.

The blonde shook his head side to side, mouth full.

"No," he coughed a little. "Nothing like that." he reached, taking a drink of whatever was in the mottled red cup at the corner of his tray.

McCoy waited, eyes half lidded, trying not to drift back into other more urgent thoughts. It was nice to have a talk with someone new. It beat listening to Spock lecture or Jim run his mouth to inspire the vulcan's persistent pedagogy.   

"Ah, my father works for a fabrication plant. In Taganrog," he put the cup down and tapped nervously on its side. "Parts for ships, planes..." he trailed off, watching McCoy nod along.   
  
“How they feel about all this?” He twirled his finger in a lazy circle, elbow propped on the arm of his chair. 

“It’s a little flashy,” Chekov said, like the glamor of it all embarrassed him as well. “They boast a lot. Especially my mother. But they know there wasn’t much for me to do at home.” 

“Well it must be talk of the town to have her kid in Starfleet,” McCoy grunted, lacing his hands over his middle. He stretched his leg under the table, knee stiff. “You must have been some kid, so I bet it was old news at that point.” 

“The recruiter came when I was eight,” Chekov said simply. “So, maybe. I think it was an act of desperation for my teachers to send my scores in. I wasn’t easy to keep up with. My parents knew I was smart, too, but they were more concerned with me having friends. Like any parent would be,” he left it at that, looking at the table. He didn’t seem upset, or even bothered, but he was very sincere. 

He glanced up at McCoy and their eyes met for a moment, Chekov’s fair ones lit and strange and  _ very _ smart, and somber. The expression was too adult for his cherubic face.  

McCoy cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. Chekov raised his hands, waving frantically.   
  
“I don’t mean I had an unhappy childhood!” he rushed. “I did! It was wery nice. I was an only child and spoiled, and we took a lot of holidays, so!” His face had flushed red, his mouth running a mile a minute to elaborate on the trips to resorts and abroad and the loud and charming christmases with his bundle of uncles and aunts and neighbors, accent thickening in the hurry.

McCoy smiled, saying it wasn’t anything, and he was appeased. He hadn’t thought that at all. It wasn’t even a lie. He hadn’t thought that. What he’d thought was how aware Chekov was. Nineteen and knowing so much - about his own parents, no less. He’d thought of Joanna. She was turning six this fall, and God help him if she understood enough to be recruited by Starfleet, or know just how dysfunctional he was as her father. He thought of her being so little, and forgiving him. It didn’t sit well, so he reminded himself that Chekov was far more the exception than the rule. 

He gave him another once over in the quiet that followed. To put it plainly, Chekov was just very weird.

“I couldn’t do it at nineteen,” he concluded, and Chekov sheepishly met his eyes. Bones took a slow breath. “I don’t know how you do it, honestly. Half the imbeciles here can’t even tie their shoes let alone have a decent conversation without jamming their foot in their mouth. Me included.” 

Chekov was silent, and McCoy’s eyes drifted over his head to the rabble of the others in the cafeteria. 

“I didn’t even know who I was at nineteen, but you’re the genius...you’ve probably figured out that people think what they think and there isn’t much to change about it. Whatever it is, you’re doing better than I am. I was neck deep in bullshit at your age.”

“I’m sure you weren’t that bad,” Chekov said. “I’m not,” he blushed again, and McCoy felt the earlier remorse for bringing any of this up. “It isn’t like I’m perfect.” 

McCoy furrowed his brow, flicking his eyes back to him. He opened his mouth to say something - something like he had no idea what a bullheaded imbecile he was (it would exceed any admirable expectation Chekov had), and there was no need to try and qualify it with someone like him - but then a shadow slanted over the table and he had to look up again. 

  
“Well, what’s this!” 

Speaking of bullheaded imbeciles, McCoy immediately thought staring into Jim’s face as he came to a stop behind Chekov’s chair.   
  
Pavel stiffened, his neck sinking down between his shoulders, anticipating what was about to come next.   
  
Kirk slapped his hands down onto Chekov’s shoulders, leaning over the top of his head so that his chest was shoving against his back. 

“Ay,” the boy whined, Kirk paying no mind to the fact that he was crushing Pavel under his weight and practically folding him in half over his food as his head pushed into his friend’s personal space.

“Bones,” Jim sang. “I didn’t know you and Chekov were so well acquainted!” 

“We’re not,” McCoy clipped, giving Jim a wary look.”And get off of him,” he scolded, re-crossing his arms over his chest. Jim sneered a laugh and released Chekov, and Bones watched the kid straighten his shoulders again and fuss with the mop of curls on top of his head and tug the wrinkles out of his gold shirt.

Jim sighed, all drama, sliding his arm over Pavel’s shoulders and kicking the chair beside him out to sit down in. 

“Oh, come on Bones, he was just doing me a favor,” Kirk said, now draping his arm over the back of Chekov’s chair. He looked at his friend and smirked. “Besides, I figured you could use a nice fresh, young,  face down in that crypt you call an office.” 

Chekov’s eyes darted to Jim’s face and he awkwardly bumped Bones’ boot as he adjusted his feet under the table. He seemed to implode on himself, making his shoulders smaller as Jim propped his elbow up on the table top, looking adoringly into Bones’ eyes which could only mean he was up to nothing good at all.   
  
“A crypt would be preferable to that broom closet you’ve got me in,” McCoy huffed, ignoring it. “A full deck repair and they don’t even bother to update. Allocated resources, my ass.” 

Kirk hummed and reached forward to rock  Bones’ bowl towards him. 

“Always with the rabbit food,” he blanched. He glanced at Pavel’s mostly-eaten curry and smiled. “See, Chekov, you should remind Bones here that eating can actually be a pleasure.” 

“Don’t you have a Vulcan to abuse,” McCoy dismissed, before Pavel could defend himself. 

“You sound so jealous Bones, I’m offended,” Kirk said, leaning more on his elbow, cheek cradled in his hand forlornly. “You know you’re my favorite to rankle and torture,” he turned to Pavel again, speaking directly to him. “He gets this cute little drawl, it’s really something. Don’t you think?”  
  
Pavel looked guiltily at  McCoy and then back to Kirk.  


“Don’t answer that. The last thing he needs is any kind of positive reinforcement, and I know this hasn’t got anything to do with you,” McCoy waved off, glaring at Jim whose foxy grin was taking up most of his face. “I’ll get to it eventually.”   
  
“Bones, you wound me, honestly,” Jim sighed, leaning back and crossing one leg over the other to show he was serious. “I’m innocent, I swear. As for Mr. Chekov, well, consider that my new protocol.”   
  
“What?” McCoy barked, and Pavel’s eyes widened.    
  
“Captain,” he said, helpless, and Jim closed his eyes, holding up a sage-like hand. 

“Jim, what in the hell are you on?” McCoy growled. “That kid has no business in my Medbay unless his hair is turning purple at the root and his skin is scaling!” 

“As acting captain of this  _ marvelous _ vessel,” Jim interrupted. “I am at liberty to assign my crew anywhere  _ I _ see fit, and from now on Mr. Chekov will not only be the best navigator in the fleet, but will serve as a liaison between the bridge and medical.” He beamed at Bones.

“Captain, I don’t have any medical background,” Chekov started to say, laughing nervously, a note of panic caught in it. “I already help Mr. Scott and even the science department…” 

“Mr. Chekov, don’t be so modest,” Jim placated, although Chekov was far from flattered. “You’re a reliable, bright young man and I think Doctor McCoy would benefit from some more active communication on our end. Surely you can handle that. It’s just deliver and report back, you see? You’ve already done it today. You’ll just do it tomorrow.” 

“What in God’s name are you even talking about?” McCoy said. “Dammit man, I’m a doctor not a revolving door! All you do is bother me! If I could use anything it’s  _ less _ communication from everyone on this entire starship so I could actually get a damn thing done every once in a while!”

Jim swiveled back to his friend, face full of false sincerity. 

“Bones, don’t make me write you up for insubordination.” 

Bones wanted to reach across the table and smack him in the head. 

“I know when you’re up to something and I don’t want any part of it,” Bones grit out instead, jabbing his finger at Jim’s smug face and standing up from the table. 

“You’ll get used to this,” Jim said amicably to Chekov, who appeared to be frozen in place. 

McCoy made some offended noise, picked up his tray, and stomped off muttering about how it would be easier to keep water in a bucket with a hole in the bottom.

 

* * *

McCoy told him to stop knocking. 

There really wasn’t any point to it anymore. It had been three weeks since Kirk’s new “protocol”, and faithfully, every day, Pavel Andreievich Chekov came down to Bones’ office, PADD in hand and sheepish smile on his face. 

Like most anything that had to do with Jim, McCoy was on a mission to make it as painless as possible. This effort happened to be less futile than others - no need to interrupt him like that if they both knew he was coming. There had been a few times Pavel had come in only to find Medbay swarming like an anthill and frazzled nurses telling him McCoy was elbow deep in some poor xenoid or stitching up a security member’s face after an impromptu wrestling match, but mostly Pavel would come down, set the PADD gently on the corner of Bones’ desk and sit in the plastic chair behind him.

McCoy didn’t ask him to do the second part, but he figured it was because he’d done it the first time and thought he was expected to keep doing it. McCoy couldn’t tell if he wanted to sit there or not, but Chekov never convinced him either way. 

Sometimes, McCoy would hear him pull up his foot to the edge of the seat so that he could lean against his knee and he’d glance over his shoulder to find all he could see was the top of Chekov’s head and the soft rise and fall of his back as he slept off a particularly exhausting shift or a long night of helping Scottie with some loose end. McCoy would clear his throat loudly or get up and throw water on the plant drooping beside him and Chekov would lift his head and rub his face and hastily apologize. 

Once, he walked in on McCoy snoring on his desk and had to take him by the shoulder and shake him awake, much to their mutual embarrassment. Because of this Chekov was always wary to walk in unannounced, but there wasn’t any need to be. McCoy swore he wouldn’t be found in such a ridiculous position ever again, especially with the ever present feeling that other shoe was always about to  drop. 

He still didn’t have a clue what Jim was really up to, but he wasn’t going to get caught with his pants down.

Even more unsettling was that Spock was avoiding him like the plague. 

He hardly saw the Vulcan, especially if the Vulcan could help it. 

On a good day it would have been the most pleasant thing McCoy could imagine, but with Jim’s axe hovering over his head he was nothing but suspicious. Spock lived to pay the demagogue. Three weeks ago McCoy couldn’t come up with enough ways to shake off a debate, but the bowl-cut disaster barely said two words to him since this arrangement began. 

He doubted that Spock could mastermind nonsense of this caliber, but there was the impression that he honestly disliked McCoy. All he’d have to do is plant a little wayward seed in Jim’s head and the rest was gravy. He wouldn’t even have to do it on purpose, which is why he suspected Spock was timid with him. Not that he was sorry, but that he was illogical enough to let something slip and spiral out of control.

His best guess was that this all had to do with Jim’s smarmy comment about being written up for insubordination. It fit the bill - there wasn’t a single thing McCoy hated more than dealing with authority, especially Starfleet. It also possibly explained the biggest question of all: the kid. 

At first he’d expected it to just be a well timed distraction; literally busy him so that he could sabotage a tool or pull off a humiliating prank. The other, and more subtle, reasoning was that Jim figured Bones would grow so irritated with Chekov that he’d bargain with the ensign to end the agreement. That was grounds for a write up and all that came after.The questioning and panels and investigation, all inevitably ending with Jim stepping in to play the hero and rescue him from being put on suspension or saddled with some lousy resident paid to follow him around and take notes on his professionalism. 

If that was the case, then all McCoy had to do was not get annoyed and not get desperate for Chekov to be out of his hair. 

The glaring issue was that it was too easy. 

Chekov was mild, and well-mannered. He was polite - so polite at times that McCoy usually ended up feeling like the ass. He was anything except obtrusive. McCoy would forget he was in the room if it weren’t for his soft curses if he messed up one of the games he was playing while he waited, or the scuff of his boot on the floor or the creak of the chair he was in. 

There were moments McCoy caught himself enjoying it. When he coerced Pavel into eating with him nobody bothered him, and if Pavel was in the room he worked faster just because it meant the kid could leave sooner and get back to whatever the hell it was he did when he wasn’t on duty. 

No matter what angle he tilted this problem at he couldn’t come up with what tied it together. The kid, Jim, Spock. Himself. He’d even cornered Uhura and she’d said she didn’t know. Everyone was just as surprised as he was when Pavel started going down to Medbay at the end of his shifts. 

It didn’t make sense.

The only option was to sit and wait: the two things a man who worked with his hands was worst at. 

He was disgruntled. By the mystery, or the fact that Jim had ignored him for the millionth time and signed off before McCoy told him to, or the lieutenant from engineering that had nearly blown their own tridactyl hand off, or all of the above. 

It was one of those rare days where it got in the way of everything. 

It was why he suddenly threw his stylus down and pet the hair down on the back of his head. 

“Hey,” he said loudly. 

“Yes doctor?” came Chekov’s jolted reply, accompanied by a sharp intake of air which meant he’d probably been nodding off. McCoy leaned forward over his desk, rubbing his temples and over his tired eyes. He breathed into his palms. 

“Talk about something before I lose my mind.”

There was a little shift as Chekov put his foot on the floor and McCoy waited for him to say something. The silence dragged on and then Chekov cleared his throat a little.

“What is that music? I’ve been wondering,” he said a little timidly, and McCoy couldn’t help himself. 

He smiled. 

He pulled back and rested his hands on the arms of his chair with a sigh, using his foot to spin the chair a little so he could reach up and pull the little silver dome off of the shelf. 

“My old man used to play this and I hated it,” he tapped the top of the dome and the songs skipped till he found one he wanted. “Where I’m from people never got a taste for anything new. By the time I was going off on my own I wanted nothing but different, but the minute I got there it was all I wanted to hear.”

The twangy voice radiated in the small office and he spared a look at Chekov. The blonde was leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, listening intently. 

He made a face when he caught McCoy’s eyes. 

“It’s not for everyone,” McCoy chuckled. “But it’s good for someone old and set in their ways.” 

He hummed along for a few measures, and Chekov had a little funny half smile on his face. He swiped at his nose with the back of his hand and McCoy narrowed his eyes. 

“You getting sick?”

Chekov shook his head, sniffling a little and biting back a sneeze. 

“Allergies!” he clarified, though McCoy seemed unconvinced and made him use a sterilizing wipe anyway. 

“Hikaru -Ah,  Sulu - he has new specimens flowering in the botany lab and the pollen gets on me…” he explained, crumpling the used wipe in his hand and standing. He walked a few steps to where the replicator sat unused, as always, and opened the sleek recycling drawer built into the wall beside it, dropping the wipe in and closing it with it a soft thud. 

McCoy watched him and his mouth went to a thin seam. He blinked and tapped his finger on the arm of his chair, Chekov looking over the replicator curiously. 

“You two close? You and Sulu?” McCoy didn’t know why he was bothering to ask. It wasn’t as if it was his business. 

“Hikaru?” Pavel said. Hee-kah-roo. McCoy heard the fondness in each syllable. “Sure,” Pavel said cautiously. “We get along. Eat together, go to the gym together...he likes to show off to me,” he laughed a little. 

“Show off?” McCoy mused, and Pavel nodded, trying to pull the replicator out from the wall to see the back and finding it was one of the older heavier models and not so easily done. McCoy could have said something about it - to leave it alone - but he had the funny notion that the question of what was wrong with the thing had been pestering Chekov for a while. He appeared very enthusiastic about deciphering the issue, and it was amusing to see. 

“Ah, you know, this and that, always showing me his specimens and he makes me go collect with him and do the map work,” he grunted and pulled hard on the machine, tipping it forward so it’s front rested on the lip of the cart. He prodded at the bundle of wires leading into the wall. “He is the pilot though...always has to lead the way…” he got lost in picking up cords and leaning further over the replicator to get a better look. 

“Sounds like he likes you,” McCoy said absently. Pavel’s shirt had ridden up, showing a bit of his hip. He could make out the curve of it where it blended into the drum-tight line of his stomach. “Man doesn’t just go around showing off his specimens.” 

“No,” Pavel scolded with a shake of his head, ignoring McCoy’s ridiculous joke. “No, he is my good friend.”

McCoy wouldn't embarrass him by saying he knew better. It wasn’t like he didn’t know Chekov was pretty. He would be surprised if Sulu hadn’t noticed it for himself. Even when he barely remembered his name and had to ask and ask how old he was he recognized Chekov for what he was. Long fanned lashes and curls hanging over his forehead like he had stepped from some Renaissance painting of an angel. His round, expressive, baby doll eyes so imploring ; the temptation to reach out and put your hands on his neat little waist just to see how they’d fit - 

“I really could fix this, you know,” he continued, eyes darting to McCoy’s, who stiffened with guilt. “It wouldn’t be hard. I would just need to bring my tools.” 

McCoy had quickly let his eyes stray from where they had been,  relieved that he hadn’t been caught staring. He couldn’t come up with much of an excuse for it. It wasn’t like there was a lack of opportunity for him between shore leave and interested parties onboard and other ways of dealing with such matters. Maybe it was because he was so picky. Maybe it was because he was a dirty old man and he couldn’t help himself. Maybe the lack of stimulation in that crypt of an office, as Jim put it. 

The kid was nineteen for God’s sake. Who the fuck did he think he was? 

“Maybe someday I’ll let you convince me, but it’s got character. Half the time I feel like I wouldn’t know what to do with something that worked perfectly. I dwell too much on the potential of things. Surgeon’s curse,” McCoy said, pushing for words to fill his mind instead of the images he’d been indulging. 

Pavel nodded vacantly, absorbed in the replicator  and distracted by the puzzle it presented. He touched the buttons and inspected the interface, stroked its clear door, lip caught in his teeth.

“‘Sides,” McCoy continued, watching him again despite himself. Chekov had long fingers and narrow palms. His eyes strayed to his outline, the sapling bend of his spine and his ass. “I’m never in the mood for coffee anyway.”

Tearing his eyes away, McCoy nudged open the cupboard by his knee with his boot, his mouth having gone quite dry. 

“I don’t know anything about that hunk of scrap, but,” he started, clearing his throat and pulling out the heavy glass bottle. “I do know a thing or two about bourbon…”  he unscrewed the cap, taking a whiff. He bent to bring the two glasses out of cabinet as well, setting them on his desk with a soft rattle. 

Chekov hadn’t said anything and McCoy poured a finger into each, satisfied. When he turned to hand him the glass Chekov hesitated and McCoy pushed it into that same slender hand he was watching before. 

“Just think of it as medicinal,” he joked, but Chekov merely stared into the liquid with concern, blinking. 

“Oh, come on,” McCoy said gruffly, impatiently clinking his glass with Chekov’s and taking a sip. “That’s straight out of Kentucky. Not the synthetic stuff. We deserve it, having to put up with each other.” 

He eyed Chekov over the rim of his glass, but the kid made no move to drink it. He gave the side of the glass a nervous tap, and it caused McCoy to lower his own away from his mouth. 

Pavel’s expression was strange - the light in his eyes danced through the glass when he held up, inspecting the color of it, swirling it gently. 

“You talked about bourbon the first time we spoke,” he said, and McCoy’s head straightened, shoulders setting back at attention.

“When was that?” McCoy said, wracking his brain and coming up empty. Chekov’s smile twitched, but he was far from disappointed. He looked at him, as though deciding whether or not McCoy deserved a hint. 

“It’s a secret,” Chekov said finally, bringing a finger to his mouth, and McCoy found he was at a loss for any words to ask what he meant. There was a flush of heat over him, from the drink. It felt better to leave it that way - he must have been crazy, or getting too accustomed to all of Pavel’s mystery. 

Without any more delay, Chekov tipped the glass and took a sip, nodding in appreciation. “It’s smooth,” he commented, almost surprised and McCoy scoffed. 

“Of course it’s smooth,” he grumbled, pouring some more for himself before he screwed the cap back on the bottle, content to put it back. “Speaking of secrets.” 

“I won’t tell,” Chekov said worriedly, all earnest again and less enigmatic. McCoy laughed at him. 

“You’re a funny kid, you know that?” He said, plucking the glass from Chekov’s hand and drinking what was left in one quick toss. “If  I didn’t feel like I couldn’t refuse I’d say it’s not half bad having you around…” he finished, sliding the cups back in the cabinet. 

Chekov’s face was dusted with pink from the drink and his ears looked warm. He laughed back, scratching his shoulder boyishly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Charming as always, doctor,” he said, and McCoy cocked his eyebrow. 

“Damn right I am.”

 

* * *

  
McCoy would have to amend that statement.

As a young man he could have gotten away with it, but time and stress had changed too much for it to remain true on all counts. 

It was probably difficult for most people he met nowadays to imagine a world where Leonard Horatio McCoy was anything but a curmudgeon. Few could burrow past the thick skin he had developed over the years to see that his abrasiveness  was really born from a serious dedication to his work. 

To his knowledge, Jim was the only person who seemed aware that below all of that there lay an even stronger commitment - an unwavering compassion.

He would never claim to be a saint, but he had learned that his heart was too big to be worn on his sleeve anymore. Jocelyn had taught him what it was like to smother someone with how you felt, although the drinking and the egotism hadn’t helped that situation a lick. 

In hindsight he could see what an idiot he was, ultimately, for getting married right out of medical school. If he had any of the sense that gotten him a degree in the first place he would have waited till he had a practice - but he was too hungry for what he figured he needed at the time. 

Leo McCoy, first medical doctor in a long line of attorneys, just like his daddy wanted. Something new and exciting to add to the McCoy roster, put their name in people’s mouths again. The family certainly didn’t require any of it. They had all the esteem the county could make up, but it hadn’t been enough for the old man. It was a chance to make something of his emotive and confounding son as though, perhaps, the science of the occupation would temper his nature after the romp of undergrad at Ole Miss. 

The science had turned out to be more of  an art than either of them imagined. Like the hand of God himself came down on him and told him what he was meant for. The discipline, though, had done him a bit of good.  It measured him in a way he hadn’t been before; it taught him something about capacity, and managing it all. How to compartmentalize. 

At first it had pleased Jocelyn, but then she realized what residency was. She barely saw him, and when she did she wasn’t happy with it. 

There he was, trying too hard to make up for it and her too alienated by the attention. She felt like he was too smart - that he talked down to her; his attempts at romance were patronizing. She was just a girl from back home, after all. They barely remembered each other from high school, but she’d been working at the beauty parlor when he blew back into town to troll for a wife and God help her she was the one who bit first.   
  
They’d become  _ those _ people, trying to have the baby to patch it up, or at least give them something in common again.

In the end it was a relief to turn it all over to her. It was meaningless to him after the way she’d skinned him for it. His father wouldn’t even speak to him, so he took his sorry ass to the recruitment office as it was all he could think to do. 

The rest blurred in the eclipsing light of Jim Kirk. What a fucking mess he’d gotten himself into there - but Jim never faulted him for being brusque or even irresponsible in the case of Joanna. They both had been through a hell of a lot. Both of them had wanted to run from it. 

Unlike Jim, McCoy had settled with himself long ago. It was easier to be contented with expectations than try and make someone think different. If Jocelyn wanted him out, he was happy to comply. If his father thought he was a disappointment, he’d fling himself into space, as far away from Georgia as he could get. 

Jim would say it’d turned him into a son-of-a-bitch, and he wasn’t wrong, but Chekov’s assessment wasn’t right either.

A few days later, the kid didn’t show up. McCoy looked at the time at first and assumed he might be late, but then half an hour ticked by and still no Pavel Andreievich. It was ridiculous, but he did actually have to see that shit before a certain time so it could be pinged to a base without his ass getting handed to him for tardiness. 

Scowling, McCoy stood and wandered out of his office. Several nurses were on break and stood chatting near the dispensary when he rounded the corner. 

“You seen Chekov?” he asked, the nurses turning to him. They glanced back at each other. 

“Who?” one said, and Christine Chapel rolled her eyes. 

“He means the little cute one who drops off that silly paperwork every day. Kirk makes him do it.” 

“Oh!” the nurse agreed, suddenly grinning. “No doctor, we haven’t seen him today. He must be busy! There was a broadcast about an away mission earlier. He might be on planet.” 

“Hmm,” McCoy huffed, unconvinced. Someone would have notified him about that, or at least dropped the forms in a message the way they used to. He checked the time on his communicator and frowned at it. Pavel was well off shift by now. Something must have held him up. 

Annoyed, he excused himself from the group. He could page him, but he wasn’t about to make Pavel suffer anymore for what probably wasn’t his fault. He knew that he wouldn’t have done it on purpose; the boy was too eager to please for that, and this was only his first screw up. He’d have to hunt him down himself and take the PADD from him to sign off, which was a never ending pain in the ass. 

Jim’s bizarre mandate or not, it as a job that required both of them now and McCoy was dependent on him. There was also the niggling feeling that perhaps something was wrong - why else would Chekov not show up? 

It was that, or someone had told him not to. Or held him. The kid couldn’t say no to anybody. 

As he waited in the lift to go to the upper labs the thought occurred to him that maybe this definitely wasn’t Chekov’s fault. In fact, he would bet money that it wasn’t. He thought about this as he walked down the hall, and the more he walked the more he realized he had left his post without following the proper procedures because of his hurry. That and he had  _ left his post _ leaving his office open to anyone - 

He looked up, having knocked his shoulder against someone roughly in the hall.  
  
“Watch it -,” he said, although he was partially to blame. Both of them were absorbed in their own worlds they had barely been  watching where they were going. McCoy’s words stopped short at seeing Spock in such close proximity. The Vulcan’s eyes were round and his eyebrows were shooting up to his hairline, and it was clear that Bones was the last person he had expected and wanted to see.

It was  _ mighty _ suspicious.   
  
“Excuse me, doctor,” he hurried, beginning to maneuver around him, and McCoy reached out to grab his arm before he could.  
  
“Now you hold on a damn second,” McCoy growled, holding him in place. Spock could have easily broken free, but he seemed to let him do what he wished, which was yank him back into his line of vision. “You’ve been skirting me like a bad date on prom night.”  
  
“My apologies,” Spock said coolly, as though that was all McCoy wanted to hear.   
  


“Don’t you feed me that bull,” McCoy continued, pulling Spock closer to the wall so that they were out of the way of others. “You owe me a hell of an explanation for the circus going on around here.”   
  


Spock remained silent, guiltily letting his eyes wander to the people passing by.   
  


“Explanation for what,” Spock insisted, still avoiding McCoy’s eyes.   
  


“Let me make this easy on you,” McCoy explained. “You have one job,” McCoy held up a finger.    
  
“That’s to keep Jim from doing anything stupid when I’m not around, and you have somehow managed to do exactly the opposite.”   
  


Spock, unable to avoid the obvious, straightened his shoulders and took a shallow breath. It was just like him to act like this was all some grand human misunderstanding. 

“I’m assuming you’re referring to Ensign Chekov,” Spock admitted. McCoy fought the urge to roll his eyes.  
  
“If you mean him not showing up today then, yes, I am referring to Ensign Chekov,” McCoy said, giving the Vulcan an icy glare. “But I’ve got better than a good feeling that you know more about that than you’re letting on. As in, Jim’s up to something and is purposefully trying to sabotage me because he’s got nothing better to do with his time.” 

“I have no influence on how Jim includes you in his leisure time,” Spock said plainly. 

“Good God,” Bones said, closing his eyes. “Spock, I don’t give a damn what you think of me but you’ve been acting like a spooked horse every time I so much as step in a room. A month ago I couldn’t get you out of my hair to save my life! So if you know something I don’t, I would be obliged to know.”   
  


Spock gave him a once over, brow furrowed in momentary confusion. His shoulders stiffened and he drew himself up, as though appearing tenser would create an illusion of indifference.   
  


“Mr. Spock,” McCoy said, and Spock cleared his throat, looking away once more and then glancing back to McCoy.   
  


“I must make it clear, my exposure to Ensign Chekov’s…affection...for you was unintentional…”   
  


McCoy stared at him, not comprehending.   
  


“Chekov? No, dammit, – no, I’m talking about Jim!” McCoy said, loudly. “Whatever he’s got in his head to make my life a nightmare, and you’re going to tell me what that is!”   
  


“Jim has little to do with this, doctor,” Spock said, and McCoy stopped, brows furrowing. “His involvement is merely cosmetic, to say the least. He has no ulterior motive except to embarrass Chekov and exposing his,” Spock’s mouth seamed together with discomfort. “Emotions towards you.”

  
“What?”   
  


Spock stared at him, and if McCoy wasn’t fooling himself he’d think that all the color had drained from Spock’s already pallid face, like even he was distraught by the words he’d spoken. He leaned closer to McCoy, tilting his head so that his words would go closer to his ear and away from anyone who could be casually listening. 

“Through no fault of our own, Ensign Chekov and I unwillingly exchanged some intimate knowledge. Most of it regarding his intentions about you - however unfounded. Somehow, Jim became aware of this as well,” Spock said the last part with a sense of bewilderment. It still eluded him how good Jim was at extracting sensitive information from him.    
  


“What in God’s name are you saying?” McCoy said, frantically, and Spock merely stood there, clutching his PADD, looking like a school boy who got caught doing something exceptionally insolent. 

“I believe that you would refer to it as a…” he paused. “Crush. An elaborate one.” 

“ _ Chekov _ ?” McCoy gawked. Spock looked like the entire conversation was making him ill.    
  


"Excuse me,” Spock declared, finally, shoving away from McCoy. McCoy stood there, stupidly, knowing he had just been literally ditched.   
  


He replayed the words over and over, but it didn’t satisfy him at all.

McCoy blinked at the empty space Spock had just occupied.   
  


Chekov was supposed to come and deliver the forms to him, but he hadn’t. That was it. There was no  _ feeling _ , or whatever Spock implied. That was positively outlandish. How would Spock, that barren wasteland of feeling, know anything about something like that. 

This was a prank, Jim’s prank. Just a prank. 

_ I didn’t know you and Chekov were so well acquainted -  _

The words throbbed in his skull. The smugness, the affable way he kept asking him about Chekov whenever they were together. Every day, that goddamn angel of a nineteen year old sitting in his office for literally no reason at all...so McCoy might even have a dirty thought, might do something so stupid like offer him a drink or get to know him, might have to witness the catastrophe of Chekov’s feelings. This whole time. 

  
What a great joke it must have been, to put him with someone like Pavel. If Pavel had confessed - 

“Oh, fuck,” McCoy said, bringing his palm to his forehead. 

“Doctor!” 

McCoy’s whole body prickled. 

“Doctor,” Chekov panted, coming to a full stop in front of him after skidding around the corner. 

McCoy saw his flushed face between his fingers, his bright eyes, a curl swirled over his forehead, the PADD tucked under his arm. His shoulders rose and fell hard and McCoy remembered with a great intensity that Pavel was an endurance runner, not a sprinter. 

He’d won the marathon, way back. He’d seen his photograph in the campus newsletter. He remembered glancing at the copy on Jim’s coffee table and thinking it was true what they said about sweet sixteen - 

“My apologies,” he huffed, looking up at him, mouth red and slightly open. “There was a malfunction with a transport beam and Mr. Scott asked me to look after it - It was an emergency! So I came, quick as I could!”

McCoy stared at him, a weakness coming over his whole body. Impossible. It couldn’t be right, that this good kid had it for him. Anybody but him. He barely knew him and understood that Pavel was smarter than that and better than that. 

Pavel straightened, pulling the PADD out and offering it to him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he repeated. 

Bones thought of Jim Kirk, eyes narrowed because of his grin, tongue slightly poked between his teeth, legs crossed. 

“Don’t be,” he said, snatching the device out of his hand and gritting the words out. “This isn’t your fault.”

 

 

 

 


	4. i let the freight train carry me on // the delmore brothers

iv

 

The day the Starfleet recruiter came to Taganrog was a dreary one.

It was late September and a drizzle was settled over the town, making the air more damp and clingy than usual. After meandering leisurely through the city center for half an hour, the silvery-white unmarked craft sighed to a stop in front of the Chekov's apartment.

To the neighbors peeping through their curtains to see the stranger unfolding from the vehicle, officer's cap screwed snugly on their head in the sprinkling rain, the arrival brought a sense of the inevitable. At last, Pavel Andreievich's destiny was coming to call.

The apartment was a modest three-story brick building facing a narrow street lined with oak trees turned brown by autumn. Like most everything in the quiet city it was neatly made and charmingly symmetrical; each of the three flats had the same narrow balcony trimmed with a wrought-iron banister and both lower corners of the complex were curtained with dark green ivy.

As with the rest the recruiter had observed, there was an obsessive attention to replicating archaic detail, even on such a plain residential street. There were fussy wooden window casements on the outside and a centuries old copy of an analog bell system in a brass box beside the paned front door.  

In any other setting the obtuse antiquity of filigree and baroque columns and bright colors might have felt gaudy or like an inaccurate attempt to please tourists, but in this place it didn't seem tired but merely prim, especially compared to the looming robotic arms and cranes standing like large white upright bones in the shipyard below it. The sleek, needle-nosed barges easing in and out of the harbor were, by nature, incongruously modern.

The town on the hill simply proclaimed what it was: above it all.

The recruiter was only slightly surprised, but mostly amused, by the lack of obvious security - a slim wooden wedge kept the heavy front door open and inside the checked tile foyer was a trail of wettish footprints and a black umbrella leaned against the doorframe of the garden level unit. Under the mail dispensary was a neat stack of packages dropped for the day - a senior citizen meal kit in its insulated flexible container and some other nondescript parcels, wobbly interfaces shimmering the address and processing information of their recipients.

The stairs were wooden as well as narrow and wobbly. A thick tapestry runner ran down the length of the three flights, edges worn down and gray from years of use. As the recruiter climbed their weight caused the boards to creak and squeal, and by the first landing they were at eye level with a slightly oxidized metal light fixture, its scalloped bell lamp casting fuzzy shadows onto the wall.  

The afternoon rain made the whole apartment feel soft and a bit sticky inside. It was a pleasant place. The recruiter was always intrigued by the little corners talent seemed to hide. They'd knocked on the doors of domed desert hideaways and isolated farm houses and flats at the very top of government housing in the most crowded cities in the world. They'd sought out candidates in every nook and cranny of every environment earth had to offer, even one in a privately operated undersea mining colony, but today's felt a degree different than usual.

Maybe it was the rainy quietness of the weather, or the aggressive quaintness, but the recruiter felt invasive, almost predatory.

The file spoke of a very remarkable little boy, but who were they to disturb this very well kept privacy. They could easily imagine a child flying up and down these stairs, which might have been why the side door was kept ajar. It was easier than trusting a most likely distracted child with a key code or a stool to reach the optic sensor if it was ever locked.

This wasn’t an entirely new sensation; things tended to feel a little dismaying when it came to earth children. It was why they always sent a human, or at least a hybrid. Why disrupt the peaceful narrative of a diligent plant worker's only son? If they could justify that, there was also the careful endeavor of bringing parents on board.

The recruiter paused their climb.

But the file was so _very_ remarkable. A boy with a file like that was bound to outgrow the courtyard garden's trickling fountain and neat tulip bed's soon. Besides, it was only standard procedure, and there wasn't any harm in that. It had been tested rigorously multiple times.

They came to a stop before the Chekov's door, hat tucked snugly under their arm, hair smoothed, uniform neat. They poised their hand to knock, but were interrupted by the squeak of the door downstairs swinging open. The recruiter stepped back from the door and leaned over the railing, gazing down at the checkerboard tile. A slender man in a rain-slicked coat stood for a moment, wiping his feet on the stiff carpet just inside the door. He said something, and moved to hold the door open more, so that a child could scoot inside.

Their father helped tug their hood down from the back of their head and the recruiter grinned, recognizing the downy curls and rounded, babyish, forehead of Pavel Chekov.

"Good afternoon!," the recruiter called down with a grin. "You wouldn't happen to be Mr. Andrei Chekov?"

The man, and his son, snapped their eyes up to the landing. Andrei Chekov's long-fingered hand rested protectively on the back of his son's head. He nodded.

"Yes," he called up, clearing his throat slightly. "I'm afraid we don't entertain solicitors in this building..."

"I'm Lieutenant Cross," they said and Andrei Chekov nodded again, stroking his son's hair absently. "From Starfleet," the lieutenant continued.

"His tutor said you would come next week," Andrei Chekov replied. He was wary, eyes squinting in the soft light of the foyer at the starched uniform.

"I apologize, they must have misread the date!" Cross said, hoping they sounded sincere. "If it isn't a poor time, I would like very much to speak to you for a few moments about Pavel..."

The little boy looked shyly up at Cross after hearing his name, hovering around his father's leg, sensing his hesitance.

"I do have all the proper credentials!" Cross continued, brightly, reaching into their pocket for their badge. Andrei nodded slowly, looking up at the holographic interface glimmering faintly like a star, a bit more convinced to investigate.

"I suppose it'll be alright then," he said after a moment, voice more amiable than before. He looked down at his boy with a soft smile, hand moving to pat the top of his head. "It's always a good time to speak about Pasha."

 

* * *

"Bones!" Jim smiled, fist dropping from below his chin to the arm of the captain's chair.

 

"I need to talk to you," McCoy ground out. " _Privately_."

 

Uhura looked over at the two of them from her station. It had been one of the most noisy shifts they'd had in awhile. Chekov had been summoned urgently to engineering to help Scotty and the abrupt exchange of personnel threw everyone off. Spock left as soon as the shift was winding down to follow up on the transporter malfunction, which left Kirk to laze in his chair till he could start his log and leave.

She was recalibrating everything for the beta shift when Dr. McCoy blustered onto the bridge, even more displeasured than usual - which was saying something. His face was darker than a thunderhead, and his eyes were flinging daggers into Jim with every blink. Jim, naturally, met this antagonism with all the Iowa farm boy innocence he could muster, but it didn't fool anyone, _especially_ her.

Being the only person on the bridge who possessed even an ounce of sense, it hadn't been difficult to deduce that something infinitely absurd was brewing between Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and, most unfortunately, Chekov. That, and Spock had told her.

Between hers and Kirk, the vulcan was losing all his edge. While Jim preferred to come at him like a sledgehammernshe was more content to wear away at him over the course of a few weeks. If Spock was a canyon, she was the river, and bit by bit she'd managed to dissolve whatever resolve Spock had about the whole ordeal.

At first it amused her, even while she scolded Spock, but now she was simply embarrassed by it. Embarrassed for Pavel, embarrassed for Kirk because he was ridiculous, embarrassed for Spock for having to shoulder it all.

And now, there was McCoy. Till this point there'd been hushed argument between herself and Kirk about making it clear what was going on, because _of course_ he would figure it out. He might have been distempered, but he wasn't an idiot. He was Chief of Surgery on a first class starship. He would figure it out.

But, in the back of her mind maybe she was more like Jim. Maybe she thought that perhaps, by some grace, the joke would extinguish on its own - McCoy would never get why they chuckled at him, and Uhura would be able to roll her eyes in avoidance and they'd all go about their lives. It wasn't as if anything would come from it anyway, like Kirk was always eager to remind her when she got the urge to ream him for being insensitive.

Though it wasn't fair, Kirk had a point - Chekov was...well, Chekov. He was no better than Riley; McCoy would run Chekov off before Kirk had to say anything about it, but what was the real harm in the meantime?

This, she thought, was the harm: everyone chasing their own tails and getting disrupted. She set her jaw in annoyance, jamming her fingers onto her console. Out of the corner of her eye Kirk leaned to the side, accommodating McCoy a little more.

"Doctor McCoy you're looking a little worked up -" Jim smiled, eyebrows lifting.

 

"I'm serious Jim," McCoy hissed.

"What's the problem?" Jim continued, swiveling his chair while McCoy contemplated ten different ways to make him regret he'd ever done something so stupid in his whole life.

"I have a few _questions_ about some of your new _procedures_ ," McCoy managed to growl between his clenched teeth.

"Well, I have a few procedures myself to go through -"

 

" _Now_ ," McCoy snarled, grabbing Kirk by the collar of his shirt and yanking him out of the chair, practically dragging him off the bridge. Kirk was laughing nervously, trying to keep up with him, insisting that there wasn't any reason to get so feisty in front of the crew, but McCoy didn't have an ear for any of it.

 

When the doors hissed closed behind them he kept dragging him, pounding his hand on the switches to whatever rooms they passed till he found an empty one. He shoved Jim inside and followed, slamming the lock button on the door behind him.

"Bones! Buddy - buddy, easy!" Jim panted, holding up his hands in defense "What's with the harsh interrogation tactics!"

McCoy's free hand curled into a fist and he practically threw the PADD he had been carrying (along with Jim) onto the room's empty table.

"He's a good kid!" McCoy said bluntly.  

Kirk stared at the PADD and then back to his friend, stomach twisting a bit anxiously for just a moment before he relaxed.

"Is this really what you're so worked up over?" he blinked, moving to slide the PADD towards him. "A couple of forms once a day?"

"Dammit, Jim!" Bones yelled, slamming his fist so hard on the table that the PADD rattled. "You've done a lot of foolhardy -" he seemed at a loss for words. "- fucking, relentlessly unnecessary stunts, but this? Dammit man, are you so bored you have to make up ways to meddle?"

Jim took the abuse, partly because he was so surprised by how worked up Bones was. He'd expected a lecture, maybe a verbal lashing or a slap on the wrist, but not this.

"Bones, if I didn't know any better I'd say you were taking this personally," Jim laughed, giving him a hard stare. He took a cautious step forward in the wake of Bones' outburst to get a bit closer.

“I’m serious, Jim!” Bones said, face muddied with emotion. “He’s a good kid, and you know that. He doesn’t deserve to be bullied like this by someone like you - he looks up to you...”

 

“Bones,” Jim practically groaned, reaching out and putting his hands on the man’s shoulders. “I was just trying to ruffle your feathers a little.”

 

McCoy shrugged his shoulders from under Jim’s hands, shaking his head back and forth.

 

“Jim, he’s a _good_ kid,” McCoy repeated. “He’s smart, and dammit, he’s one of the few honest people on this whole ship!”

“Listen to me!” Jim interrupted, louder. “It’s _just_ a joke! What – what did you think was going to happen? Nothing! Just like what did happen!"

McCoy wished he could make it clear. His father always told him he got too _impassioned_ and it made him inarticulate. In the following silence Jim's brow furrowed and he grimaced.

 

"Honestly, it really -"

 

"That isn't the point!" Bones snarled.  "Jim!" He was so exasperated. He felt sweaty and trapped in his clothes and his fists were curling at his sides. "Think about it!"

"About what?" Jim laughed, hands up again. "He didn't? Did he - wait," Jim's voice dropped even though it was only the two of them in the room. "He didn't admit anything to you, did he?"

The fun had drained from Jim's face, and for some reason it seemed to infuriate McCoy even more, but it was a quieter beast. He could hide it now because he remembered that Jim was an idiot. Jim _didn't_ think about anything.

That was, presumably, Spock's department but he'd seen how well that was going.

"No!" Bones barked, face hot. "No! But - if he had, Jim, I swear..." he brought his hand to his face and let out a long, hissing sigh. He rubbed over his forehead and up into his hair, mussing it slightly. "Jim, that kid has no business...and if he'd said something to me -"

 

"You would have just said it wasn't possible!" Jim said, swaggering again. "I mean?" he gestured at the air. "Given him the whole routine, right? Because that's ridiculous! That's the part that was meant to be obvious! No old dog like you is going to really get with someone like Chekov! He didn't stand a chance!"

McCoy didn't say anything. Jim was giving little soft unsure laughs, and he tried to block out the sound. He tried to pry the image of Pavel, red and panting, out from behind his eyes when he let them close.

"You and Pavel - that's the _joke_ , Bones. I understand the need to be protective," he left the 'but' hanging. "Just a joke. And nothing happened."

 

McCoy leaned his arm on the table, body heavy.

 

"Bones, this isn't really getting to you, is it?" Jim's voice was incredulous in the way it sometimes was when Jim desperately wanted to make what he was saying true. "Come on!"

"You almost made me do something terrible," McCoy said plainly, finally meeting Jim's eyes again. The little boy in Jim shrank back. "He's so...he's good, Jim," he continued. "He wouldn't do anything to harm anyone. He goes along with anything...and I -" he shook his head.

 

"What? What is it? You didn't! You didn't do anything!"

 "Jim," McCoy gave him a long, labored look. "I didn't know any better."

Jim's expression went blank.

"I mean," Jim said, light again, face still.

"I was sweet to him, Jim," McCoy murmured. He couldn't even believe himself. He wanted to kick himself at the admission. "I was sweet to him...didn't even mean to be, couldn't even help myself...if I'd have known I never even have _looked_ at him, given him any kind of idea..."

That's it?" Jim said, not trying to sound too self preserving. "We're all sweet to Chekov...you're just - he's made you go a bit soft, that's all!" Jim laughed again, but he meant it this time.

He reached out and smacked lightly on the side of McCoy's face.

"Bones, no harm done."

He moved to leave, wanting to step around him, but McCoy's hand wrapped tightly around Jim's wrist, stopping him in his tracks. McCoy's eyes were dark.

"If you ever play with that boy's heart again I will smack the shit out of you," he said. "He doesn't deserve it. I mean that, Jim. If you touch him with anymore of your fooling around - if you try to set him up with anyone else like this again I will deck you right in that pretty face."

Jim stared back into McCoy's eyes and something clenched at what he saw, but it wasn't all from the threat. It was from something else. A greener, meaner thing. Like he should dig his claws in, but he didn't.

That sly, punishing, smirk snuck up on his mouth instead.

"Who would I ever try to set him up with?" Jim replied, and McCoy's brow twitched. "He's in _love_ with _you_. You don't have to share."

"Jim, that's not what  - " McCoy's voice was regaining its growl.

"We all get that buzz," was Jim's airy reply. He leaned in. "A little advice, though," he broke his wrist free from McCoy's hand, the nerves tingling.

"Sometimes you just need to get it all out of your system."

 

* * *

 

 

The little genius was relegated to the sofa.

To Cross' amusement he went without much of a fuss, making it clear that he was used to being bossed by his mother. He laid on his back lengthwise along the furniture so that his legs hooked over the arm and hung down, soft white shoes twitching now and then while he scrolled on a cousin's hand me down tablet.

At the table, Anna Chekova set up a brightly painted samovar she claimed had been in the family so long they'd all forgotten how old it actually was. Cross was more than happy to believe her, politely accepting a thick slice of tea cake with jam spread messily on the top.

Their eyes kept straying to the child on the sofa; Pavel Andreievich was short for eight years old. He was a fine boned, almost frail looking child, but his cheeks were ruddy and his round dollish eyes reflected an awareness of everything around him. His knees had little bruises and there was a plaster on his arm; it was a sign of an active body, not just an active mind. From the looks of the neighborhood and the sea and the surrounding countryside there was no lack of trees to climb and places to explore and mischief to be made by an independent little boy. 

When Andrei came up the narrow stairs to usher the recruiter inside, the child and Cross exchanged a secret look with one another: it was obvious the boy knew where the Lieutenant had come from. He was a bit shy, avoiding Cross' gaze directly, but very interested. Cross could feel him looking, face turned so those light eyes could roam all over the visitor, wondering what they would do and projecting a thousand thoughts.

Cross made mental dictation of all of it, the small device in their pocket vibrating each time it recorded, but only so much that Cross would feel and know it was working. It was imperative to be present during interviews like these and not distracted by technology. 

"His tutor said you would be coming next week," Anna Chekova said, once she had set the tea to brew on top of the urn.

"A mix-up," Andrei said mildly, before Cross could explain.

"Ivan  Sergeiovich is always making mix-ups," Anna tittered, placing lemon and a crock of honey directly in front of Cross. "He wouldn't remember his own head if it wasn't attached to him." Cross thanked her gently.

"I prefer hot water, if that's alright," they said, and Anna flipped the tap, steaming water pouring into a tall glass encased in a heavy bronze holder for them, assuming they wouldn't know any better.

"There's vodka, as well," Andrei mentioned, his standard embellished by a heavy accent. Cross declined. Andrei nodded and waved a casual hand. It was a family recipe, he added, and Cross reconsidered enough to give a firm later, if they coerced the officer to stay for supper.

"Do you want a cup of tea, Pashenka?" Anna asked loudly, looking at her son out of the corner of her eye. Cross noted that she was already making some up for him, taking the spoon Cross had just used to drizzle honey into the bottom of a clean glass. The boy was totally absorbed in whatever he was doing and hadn't answered her.

"Pasha," Andrei said a bit louder, glancing up from his cake.

"Yes please," came the baby voice. Anna smiled to herself, taking a small plate and laying a few biscuits on it for him. She walked the few steps to the coffee table, whispering something to him. The boy rearranged the jumble of his limbs so that he was sitting up straight.

Cross set their fork down gently on the table, watching the boy take his tea and nibble a biscuit, wiping the crumbs from the tablet now stationed on his lap as they fell. Anna came back to the table, seating herself beside her husband. They were a handsome little pair; Andrei taller and thin and Anna dainty and bird like. It was too obvious that Pavel Andreievich had only inherited a name from his father as far as looks.

His lamb's wool curls and delicate face were clearly all his mother's.

Andrei's face was somber and plain, but from his serious brow peered two doggish gentle eyes that made you feel at ease and listened to. He had a casual and simple manner of speaking and remained relatively quiet unless called upon. His wife was a bit more shrill and prone to exaggerations, but she was confident enough to carry it off without anyone minding.

These were the ones to be won over, Cross thought. They knew that all this formality and tea and introduction served a purpose more than hospitality; it would take a bit of negotiating to get past them to the quiet child on the sofa.   

As it was described to Cross that rainy afternoon, Pavel was born on an unseasonably warm morning a week earlier than expected.

Anna Chekova, after recovering from the shock, would recount to all her neighbors that her labor was a dream; she’d simply sighed and there he was, squalling in the midwife’s arms. It was an obvious embellishment, but no one begrudged her the exaggeration.

For years Anna and Andrei had toiled (albeit, the old fashioned way) for a child of their own, and, finally, God or fate, or luck alone, had delivered them a son. For those who had prayed fervently for his parent’s success, it made complete sense that Pavel Andreievich would enter the world unconventionally.

From the first wailing moments of his life, they suspected that he was peculiar. That after all the ceaseless praying God had provided a miracle with all its mystery and strangeness intact.  

The midwife laughed while she peeled the membrane back from his forehead to reveal the downy near translucent hair underneath. He was so pretty he made her smile, even red and blotched and thin.

"This one was born with extra," she said when she placed him on his mother's chest. The poor girl had gone to weeping at the sight of her baby.

"Too early, too skinny, too much," the old woman spoke it with a sense of premonition she sometimes got about the children she delivered. There was just a way to tell.

His relatives often joked  that he was not the Chekov's child at all, but some changeling. But Anna Chekova, they would say, half teasing, half unable to shake the old superstitions. You know what they say about blonde women don't you, Annushka? You know what they say about babies born with a caul!

They all laughed at the medieval notion over tea and at holidays, Pavel laying in his mother's lap and peering up at them with his luminous eyes all aware. A friend would pinch his little curled feet and say their real son was swimming with the naiads and one day they'd call this one home and send the other back.

Her boy was born in the shirt, Anna Chekova boasted. He would be lucky, fairy or not, and that was enough to please his mother. They were only jealous that they didn't have such a pretty baby. Besides, he was baptized already.

His parents were not stupid people. They weren't even as plain as they might have perceived themselves to be. Cross found them extremely pleasant and well read,  but it was becoming clear (like it usually did with these cases) that they were not able to grasp how intelligent their son actually was.

"Not to break up such happy conversation, but," Cross finally found the opportunity to say, setting their cup down gently. "It's my privilege to admit the reason for my visit...which I'm sure you've guessed."

Anna shifted in her chair, glancing at her husband out of the corner of her eye. She was suddenly quite modest.

"Ah, yes," Andrei said, shrugging. "He has teachers come over. Private schools, tutors."

"Not the Federation, though," Anna said, a little nervous smile on her face. "That fine uniform and all."

"Pavel is a very exceptional boy," Cross grinned. Andrei sipped his tea.

"He's the smartest in his class," Anna added. "He's skipped grades, too."

"Yes. He's skipped nearly 10 grades, to be exact," Cross made sure to sound very impressed. They had pulled out their PADD and the file so that it appeared as though they were only reading it.  

Pavel's parents were quiet for a minute. The arrival of this topic was making them understandably uncomfortable.

"Pasha is in class with his peers," Andrei said, but Cross, of course, already knew this. "The rest is...more official," the father looked at his boy. Pavel was curled against the arm of the sofa now, absorbed.  

"The psychologist recommended it to us that we give him private lessons," Anna whispered, face flushing. "Not to be dramatic."

"Children can be cruel," Andrei sighed, leaving it at that. He rubbed the ridge of his brow thoughtfully.

"He's lucky to have such devoted parents," Cross complimented, and the two remained silent. "We respect that a great deal at Starfleet."

Anna's breath came a little harder to her now and her face had flushed very pink. Her eyes were shiny and gleaming under the light above the table. Andrei reached out and covered her hand.

"I have to say that there isn't any need to be discreet with me," Cross said, hands folded sagely on the table top. "We are fully aware of Pavel's talent. His tutor - Mr. Sergeiovich - submitted his government benchmarks to us and his scores were remarkable. That's even by our standards, you see."

"Pasha is a very bright boy," Anna said, her finger's clenching her husband's.  

"Madame, your son may be one of the most gifted children on this continent," Cross clarified. "It's why I've come here to formally extend Starfleet's hand. We have unimaginable resources for a boy in Pavel's position. We can make all the proper recommendations."

"I know what you want to do - you want to take him away from us!" Anna cried, cheeks cherry red. She hadn't begun to cry, which was very relieving to Cross.

 

"Annushka," Andrei said calmly to her. "He doesn't mean that."

"Please don't misunderstand," Cross said gently. "This isn't some strange bargain for your son's soul. We merely want to have a relationship with Pavel. We just want to make ourselves known to each other. We are just as invested and curious about his future as you are."

"He's only eight!" Anna said, tears now brimming on the very edge of her eyes. "He is only smart about some things, but not all of them. He won't even learn to swim -"

"Look Annushka, you're getting upset. They don't want him now," Andrei said. Cross didn't correct him. "He will need to have the education -"

"We can only bend the admissions policies in special cases, and only by a few years. Thirteen or fourteen, with a degree, of course," Cross explained. "As your husband said, it isn't even a discussion at this moment. Not at all."

"It's an opportunity," Andrei comforted. "An opportunity, Annushka. We've talked about it."

She looked away.

Andrei gave Cross a sheepish look.

"We've - ah. Spoken about a thing like this. Anticipated." The man's sweet eyes strayed to his son. Pavel had not moved an inch. He smiled. "You know, he is our only child, and we prayed very hard, but we didn't expect such a clever one..." he squeezed his wife's hand, his smile becoming sadder even though he wanted to be joking. "We believe he is happy," his voice had dropped to a murmur. " It's hard to know for certain."

There was a beat of silence and then Anna straightened her shoulders and stood up, the chair scraping roughly on the wooden floor.

"Pasha," she said, smiling now at no one but her son. "Pasha, why don't you show the Lieutenant your birthday present." She settled her hands on her hips.

Andrei chuckled, shaking his head. He leaned back and crossed his arms comfortably over his stomach. "Oh, yes. The birthday present. Pashenka is always so specific..."

Cross turned to see the Pavel was peering at them now over the arm of the sofa. He lifted himself up a little, setting the PADD on the coffee table with the cold tea and empty plate.

He asked his mother something in Russian that translated quickly through Cross' implant. Cross smiled warmly at him.

"I would love to see it," they said eagerly, answering Pavel's question. Pavel met Cross' eyes and nodded, stepping down from the couch and darting down the hallway towards what must have been his bedroom. Cross heard a door open and then fall shut behind him.

Andrei stood from the table and walked to the living room, pulling the coffee table and a lamp closer to the wall.

"Lieutenant, it will be better from over here," he motioned to a clear spot and Cross stood and went to it. Their curiosity was insatiable. There was a bang from down the hall. Andrei went back to the table and sat down and fixed himself more tea. Anna was in the kitchen now, her back to them as she began peeled vegetables by hand.

A few moments later, Pavel reappeared, but he held a long slender cylinder. He knelt on the middle of the floor and gently laid it down. With a grunt he uncapped it and there was a soft rumble of the thing inside. With great care the boy withdrew a heavy scroll. Cross immediately recognized it and watched, fascinated, as the eight year old slowly slid it from the container and aligned it on the floor.

Cross had seen it many times before; it was a kind of  flexible transparent LCD sheeting they used for integrated displays a few generations ago - this was the more heavy duty industrial grade for large ships or commercial endeavors. Usually it would be mounted and chemically dissolved seamlessly into the material, but every so often you found a thicker more transportable kind used for other things that didn't necessarily need to be built in to a surface.

A bit more hurried now, Pavel unrolled the huge square sheet. At the bottom was the portion holding the circuitry and it glowed a soft white at the movement. Slowly the sheet flickered to life and emitted the soft computerized light. The ends moved on their own, currents stiffening so that it was a rigid tile.

Cross bent down, hands on their knees to look closer. Pavel stood up, peering over it as well. In this way, they were head to head.

 

At the table, Andrei was sipping tea and holding a smaller, more beaten, version that was kept on the kitchen counter and unfolded and refolded dozens of times because it contained the newspaper.

"Papa got this for me," Pavel said, looking at the screen and then up to the Lieutenant. "They used to make these at the plant, but they switched to solar panels last year. That's how I got the idea. I asked him to see if he could bring it home - and then I would do the rest of it."

The sheet hummed.  Cross grinned across to the child.

"Your standard is very good," they said and Pavel glanced up and then back down, smiling.

"I practice a lot," Pavel continued, and he crouched down, squatting beside the tile. "Would you like to see what my idea was?"

"Very much," Cross said softly. Pavel nodded and touched the tile. Immediately it shocked into vivid high definition color. The image hovered slightly over the tile, bending as Pavel withdrew his hand.

"No programs yet, " Pavel sighed. "But we downloaded the manuals from the library center! I am trying to learn very quick. I want them to move 360 degrees - like the big one at the museum..."

"Tell the Lieutenant what it's called, Pashenka," Andrei interrupted from the table, ruffling the sheet he held to shake the text back into resolution. Even from far he could tell when his boy was getting a little carried away.

"Right now it can only do bigger and smaller," Pavel said shyly, expanding the image with a gesture. The print bled from the edges of the tile, hovering and  humming slightly.

Cross gazed down on the picture.

"It's the _Harmonia Macrocosmica_ by Andreas Cellarius - these are the 1601 prints. The 1708 edition is not so pretty..."

Cross had seen quite a few things, but they had not seen this. They'd seen similar - but it didn't feel as grand as what was spread out between the two of them on that old warehouse cast off.

Cross watched the child swipe their hand several times, the images sliding into one another.

"This one  is my very favorite, this is plate 6," Pavel said, stopping the motion. Cross looked at the large draped fabric at either corner, reading along with the boy. "Planisphærivm Brahevm, sive structura Mvndi totivs, ex Hypothesi Tychonis Brahei in Plano Pelineata. Very inaccurate, but not as bad as Copernicus..."

Cross huffed a soft laugh.

"It's very beautiful," they commented.

"It's the most beautiful," Pavel said matter of factly. "It’s not so scientific."  

There was something in the little boy just then. He seemed like he would burst at the seams with all the things he had to say about it to this willing and able party, and Cross knew all they had to do was ask. But now was not the time. Now they had to select very carefully.  

"Do you like maps, Pavel?" Cross asked. Pavel looked at him over the glow of the picture. His face was sweet and open.  He nodded.

"Yes! I have all kinds! I collect them. Papa and I go to the library and look through all the atlases and we download them to bring home...I like naval maps the best. And astrological ones," he said. " We went to the naval museum, and they have ones where you can manipulate them more.. That was my idea -so I could study them more and look at them better and we wouldn’t have to go all the way to the museum. Ivan Sergeievich says it’s wasteful. He wants me to do more maths.”

 

“Do you want to do more maths?”

  
Pavel shrugged. He seemed bored by the idea, like it wasn’t interesting. Cross knew from his scores that he was already beyond capable at the subject. It seemed, to Cross, that there was something less conventional about Pavel’s talent. It was rooted more in creativity than logic.

 

It was just the sort of thing, this artistry, that made Starfleet work up an appetite.

 

“I tried to explain, but he didn’t understand. He says it’s ornamental and inaccurate and too old, and most everything has a map already,” Pavel explained with a sigh.

"Well, that is true. Most things in the world are already mapped out. But a lot of math is figured out too..." Cross continued. Pavel stared down at the image and chewed his lip shyly.  He glanced unsurely back at his parents, who were busy, and then back to Cross.

 

“When I'm grown up, I want to go lots of places and make maps of them, and read maps from other people. That’s why I have to practice. Like Standard.”

 

“What would you make a map of, Pavel?” Cross asked.

Slowly, and without a word, the boy lifted his finger and dragged it all the way around the farthest round edge.  

 

Cross's eyes tracked the path around Brahne's planisphere. The beautiful, intricate rayed lines linking nested orbital rings colored rich blues and reds and golds, intersecting here and there in magnificent arcs and sweeps that bloomed off the page.The planets  haloed the outer circles like bright flowers on a wreath, or diamonds on a wedding band. The universe, grand and sprawling .

And there, in the very center that tiny inconsequential seed of white. It was so small you might even have forgotten it was there and you had to look closely to see the thin script below it: _globus terrae_.

 

(Plate 6 "PLANISPHÆRIVM BRAHEVM, Sive Structura MVNDI TOTIVS, EX HYPOTHESI TYCHONIS BRAHEI IN PLANO DELINEATA - The planisphere of Brahe, or the structure of the universe following the hypothesis of Tycho Brahe drawn in a planar view"  _Harmonia Macrocosmica, 1601)_

 

 


	5. holdin' on // jerry lee lewis

v

 

If there was a rawer, more incomprehensibly foolish part of Pavel Andreievich than his prophetic tendency to be rejected by older men, time and the universe had yet to divulge it.

McCoy, deliberately or not, didn’t seem to notice.

"Fine, fine," McCoy sighed, a tired smile on his face when he turned it to Pavel. "Go on."

"I don't know why you're so bent on it, but," the doctor drawled the words and waved his hand dismissively before crouching back over his paperwork, as if to say _no point in delaying the inevitable._

"See? It's good when you give in to me," Pavel teased, grinning at the victory.

"Hmm," was all McCoy replied with, not even looking up.

The voice in Pavel’s head gave a mischievous laugh. It was an unbearable pleasure to be indulged by the good doctor when he finally buckled.

McCoy did have a point – the replicator’s existing parts were too modest to make much more than few tea cakes and there’d be no dressing up that fact. Pavel long imagined that commissioned officers like McCoy would have access to state-of-the art equipment, but the embarrassing truth was that when your ship was constantly getting knocked out or blown to smithereens you didn’t garner many favors and things like new replicators probably were low on budget allocations.

It wasn’t hopeless though, even in these leaner days. If he could get the upgrades Pavel might even be able to commit a miracle - his mouth watered and he nearly had to take a personal moment at the idea of having a machine at his disposal that could make blintzes or shchi.

He tipped the clunking thing forward so it balanced on its long edge. He’d been wearing his screwdriver in his boot for days in anticipation of this moment, but now…

“Eh, Doctor,” he said, starting to feel for the seams on the back of the machine so he could pry it apart. He thought of if he would keep it on the cart or have to move it to the floor eventually. “What’s your favorite food?”

He looked at McCoy in his chair, shoulders drawn up, hand in his hair. Trying to be oblivious to the awkward quiet and letting Pavel have what he wanted. The doctor lifted his head slightly and his stylus paused.

“Hmm,” he rumbled. “Bread and butter.”

Pavel’s eyebrows crawled together.

“Really?” he said, gritting a little. He popped the back of the replicator off with bit of wiggling struggle.

“Nothin’ better,” McCoy replied as if it were fact. “And don’t get any big ideas about that,” he added gruffly and Pavel scoffed, something rattling loose into his hand.

“After this, ve’ll eat bread and butter every day,” Pasha said.

“We?” McCoy said and Pavel immediately felt his entire body seize in terror and the screwdriver became sealed in the claw of his fingers. The word _idiot_ clanged in his ears. _Idiot, idiot, id-_

“You’ll have to do better than that if you expect me to share...”

The next breath Pavel took felt like a gulp of fresh snow.

Pavel had temporarily, luxuriously, allowed himself to forget the sickening apprehension that was nesting in his stomach that this time would be the one where McCoy launched into the tired, hollow, speech.

Pavel had heard the bullshit before - more times than he'd ever want to confess. Even to Riley, even to _God_ . There wasn’t any room for this foolhardy _ease_ . McCoy knew. He knew, and for days Pavel expected the _appropriate_ reaction to follow, and every unfortunate instance felt like another crack to an egg that was going to give birth to a squawking, foul, bird flapping out of his mouth.

There'd be the sighing and the shaking of the head and the flattery. Pavel was too smart, too pretty, too much potential. Pavel had a whole life before him, he was only fifteen, seventeen, nineteen. No reason to waste the time on anyone, let alone this older man who was married or committed or set in his ways or too presumably untamable or too dull or too enigmatic or the roster of attributes they prescribed themselves during these pretentious and redundant soliloquies.

Later, after the shameful crying in the bath or in his fists while he crushed his body against the wall on one side of the bed, he would bitterly imagine them jacking themselves off as they said all of it to make it hurt less, to see the doomed and naked selfishness in these men who cheated his heart and let him fall in love and selfishly enjoyed the stroke while pretending to endure it. His body would get radioactive with scorn and his mind was flung reeling into some new work or project.

New goals meant new expertise, new scents bent over him at the desk, pointing something out to him. New sets of eyes to look at him with bright curiosity when they were exposed to all Pavel’s talents, a new mouth pouring out praise and even sometimes suspicious prodding, but only _ever_ to get him to his full potential. All of it delicious and new and distracting and _this_ time Pavel wouldn’t get carried away by it.

He’d won the marathon to spite a physics tutor, before that a chess championship to pummel the lingering devotion to a former running coach. As the years went along and he began to count them all on a second hand he came to the reasonable conclusion that he was, firstly, a fucking idiot, and second, going to have to stop being surprised.

Honestly, it made him laugh; did he think these men were criminals? Of course they weren’t. Of course they looked at the gangly thirteen year old blushing and sweating bullets and _instantly_ put those notions to _immediate_ rest. They had wives and partners and children and accolades and common decency and _background checks_.

Frustrated, Pavel wondered who the hell had decided that adolescence was the time that a body decided to react violently to all forms of stimuli – it was unbearable. He walked with his head bent for months at the academy, praying not to see anyone even remotely attractive lest he get snagged in the sticky web of wanting them.

On a blindingly sunny day as he was wandering across campus he saw McCoy hunched over a water fountain, and in the back of his preoccupied mind he realized that he might be half in love with him. He thought the way he swiped the back of his hand inelegantly over his mouth might make him come in his uniform for no reason except that it was him who was doing it.

He kept walking.

He went to class, went to eat. To parks and museums and shops on the weekend. He drank coffee, fell asleep slumped against library walls after studying so late he couldn’t see straight anymore. He waited at every party to see if he would arrive. He always glanced around when he crossed the common green or went up the steps into a building. He kissed girls, and boys, and was felt up by all manners of beings because he was a drunk flirt and lonesome and excited by it.

He fingered himself in the dark, biting the back of his hand, on nights that Kevin was sleeping over with someone else or gone home for the weekend. He got up the next morning and blearily felt for his sweatshirts and clumsily tied his running shoes and stretched in the damp air outside his dorm, rubbing his sore knuckles.

It was fine, he figured. That was all it would ever be. He even had the audacity to think he was finally being _mature_.

He looked at the back of McCoy’s head during Kirk’s trial and thought, slyly, arrogantly, how silly he’d been in the past…

And, then, there was a distress call from Vulcan.

And then the frantic, slippery proximity they were all thrust into tipped the world on its side. And Pasha felt as though he was always brushing against him in some way, even across rooms, even when McCoy didn’t know his name or his age or even who he _was_. And their molecules were all buzzing around each other now and bumping and rubbing because they all were part of the same big bad existential crisis.

And love started pacing the cage again, and then it rattled the bars.

Maybe, Pasha thought, he’d come out on the other side with at least a friendship and, at minimum, acknowledgement. Anything better than drifting below McCoy's radar for the next three years, and sliding back into the nameless place he’d been before.

He decided that the clearest course would be to follow the same dogged mantra: enjoy the time as much as he could, while it lasted. He was reluctant to say that this was avoidant, in any way, of what was now an even more present reality.

But, incredibly, he wasn't greeted by McCoy's thorough defense. Instead, the energy around McCoy was startlingly shy. He avoided eye contact, but he wasn't brusque or mean. He said these strange dancing things that were neither one way or another.

Pavel could kill him. Reach out, grab his shoulders and shake him and ask why he was off script.

It’d be easier than praying it wasn’t pity, which was the friendlier, but more humiliating partner to outright dismissal.

But then, Pasha wanted to drag out this silly repair that would only take him a few diligent hours. He wanted to watch McCoy take a gracious sip of coffee. Fuck the bread and the butter, he wanted to program it to make a slice of Napoleon cake. He wanted to watch McCoy count the layers with the tip of his fork.

 _14_ ? No, 15. Wasn't it something? His mother could make them by hand. Wouldn't he like to try that someday? Would he like to come home to Russia, to see their little flat, see his mother, shake his father’s hand? He could already hear his mama. Her boy, and a _doctor_ . _Chief Medical Officer on the Starship Enterprise...._

He wanted to see the candid gleam of McCoy's eyes lighting on him when he looked up because Pavel had distracted him into dropping this new, cautious, demeanor. In that moment McCoy wouldn't care about what Kirk had blurted out. The condemning nonsense would evaporate.

McCoy would be looking at Pavel and see something clever and desirable all on its own.

McCoy's chair squeaked as he moved in it, shifting. Pavel let the breath out that he had been holding and looked back to the replicator. If someone had come to him - past him - and even hinted any of it he would have been playfully disgusted.

 _Oh please_ , Pasha might say. _He doesn’t know I exist._

 

* * *

 

Jim wasn’t being subtle about trying to get back into Bones' good favor.

"It'll be fun!" he said, hands on his hips. He was holding court in the officer's den, a cubby carved out on the upper deck where the three of them often convened after hours. Bones was predictably flopped back on a couch and Spock was seated primly in a chair a few feet away. In an uncharacteristically weary gesture, the Vulcan had two fingers resting on the very edge of one severe eyebrow.

"Fun," Bones repeated, folding his arms over his chest. "I've seen your ideas of fun."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Well, consider me being completely transparent this time. It's going to be a piece of cake. All we have to do is give a complimentary check up to this -" he twirled his wrist.

"Empress," Spock said, statuesque.

"Empress," Kirk continued. “And, _if_ all goes well, I think we've all earned ourselves some shore leave." He beamed at Bones, too pleased with his impending release from the doghouse.  

Bones' eyes narrowed.

"A checkup," he said flatly. "Just a routine checkup. No mercenaries, no sudden scientific or environmental surprises, nobody trying to kidnap me, enslave or hang me."

“Cross my heart, hope to die!” Kirk mimed the motion over his uniform. “The only thing you’ll be nursing is a hangover. The Empress is actually a human!”

“Humanoid,” Spock corrected.

“Semantics,” Kirk dismissed, waving his hand. “The point is – you could do it in your sleep. This is just a _gesture_. We visit this planet, stop off at the palace, introduce ourselves, you give her a good once over. Like I said, a piece of cake.”

“Jim is being surprisingly accurate,” Spock levied. “It’s an advanced civilization. They pride themselves on a deep culture of wellness. They are curious about what modern medical expertise looks like on a vessel such as ours.”

“See? It’s just a little handshake…” Kirk sat heavily down on the couch beside his friend, knees far apart and head tipped back against the backrest.

“This isn’t some pleasure planet is it,” Bones grumbled, reaching for his drink. Ice clinked against the glass as he lifted it. Jim grinned lewdly.

“Don’t I wish? Unfortunately it’s a rather modest culture, but it has the proper," he paused. "Accommodations. Isn’t that how you put it, Spock?”

Spock's eyes remained closed in meditation.

“I believe everyone's particular vices will be satisfied,” the vulcan said blandly. Bones smirked and laughed into his glass.

"What satisfies a healthy green blooded vulcan like you, Mr. Spock?" Bones prodded.

"A reasonable distance from you and your interrogations, doctor," Spock's eyes finally opened as he said this and Bones bit back a laugh.

"I think you owe me my needling," Bones declared. "But, I can personally guarantee that for you."

Bones wasn't an expert, but he could have sworn Spock winced at the jab.

"I just hope I can find a decent swimming pool," Kirk sighed, stretching his arms over his head like he was readying for a dive.

Bones' mouth quirked suddenly.

Déjà Vu.  

 

* * *

  
  
Spock was right - it was far from a pleasure planet.

It was earth like in atmosphere and climate and the inhabitants were close enough cousins you could barely discern a difference.

Long time members of the federation, the planet had cultivated a strong reputation for its tourist-in-mind health and recovery industry. They were the breed McCoy had seen before: advanced to the point they circled back. Modernity whittled down to a wire frame where society could drape its gauzy tranquility and furry natural order. It resulted in a symbiosis of function built into the architecture and culture; an organic oneness with the environment and the self to promote a physical harmony.

They liked to appeal, particularly, to starships.

The thought of such an enclosed and efficient space seemed to stimulate their imaginations and they had treatments and alleviation for a battery of ailments - physical or otherwise - that one could accumulate living and working on what was deemed a floating coffin for months or even years at a time.

Jim's handshake, as it were, seemed less of a gesture and more of a discount. The current dynasty acknowledged the tip toeing advancement of the federation and promised to adopt new standards of procedure if there were any, and in return they got an influx of hungry, exhausted crew members in desperate need of a recoup flooding their capital.

Resorts twined the shorelines and cliff sides and within the working city was a thick spread of individual parlors for more specific services. Not for pleasure - _wellness_. It was clear they were a holistic kind that, as Spock promised, catered to a wide variety of "illness". Perhaps most importantly, it was immaculately run. Their obligation to Starfleet's and Federation standards meant most, if not nearly all, of these amenities were profoundly safe.

Even the administering of sanctioned substances was done under the watchful supervision of modest hostesses, usually older and motherly, in pristine centers with medical staff already stationed nearby. It was an exceptionally well run and profitable arrangement - a far cry from some of the seedier and more depraved ports of call that Jim had led them too.

The aftermath of such excursions always waited for McCoy back on the ship, a sheepish line of patients lingering outside the Medbay doors like the tail of a guilty dog.

On _this_ planet McCoy might actually get to relax. He could even get away with disabling his communicator for a few hours since there wasn't a need for him to get abruptly beamed back to the ship due to an injury from an extreme new sport or contracting a bizarre STD. It made Jim's point abundantly clear.

The palace was quite modest. It sat on a northern embankment of the large river that flowed through the capital and out into an indigo sea. It was only several stories high on the ground level with low dome capped towers draped in foliage. From a distance it blended into the rounded hills that rose behind it, the sun peaking over both at the same time, thrusting it into a shadowy invisibility.

Its architecture was what they might describe as classical, their guide informed them. It was extremely open - air free to circulate with the wind and the opening and closing of various rooms. The interior was irrigated with clear paths of water and everywhere was the creak of large water wheels to progress it artfully down halls and down into reservoirs fraught with lilies and exotic fish. Fronded palm like trees stood in a large atrium and greenhouses and staff whisked food to and from the courtiers residing there, many clumped in packs of ten or more on pillows and rugs at the base of large white columns

The three of them looked decidedly bulky in their boots and bright uniforms strolling behind the guide through the long tiled, sunlight-sparkling arcades.

The Empresses' wing was lovely - hanging gardens made up the ceilings and instead of one single area for sleep there were several scattered around in the shape of lush platforms covered in unfamiliar animal skins and fabrics. It was difficult to discern if this was traditional, or just suited to the Empress's particular habits.

When they entered she was conversing with a mild looking aide, her back to them. She wore a long veil fastened to the back of her head that floated all the way to the floor, pooling behind her. With her facing away her shape was ambiguous beneath the waterfall of garments she wore and the heavy curtain of dark hair down her shoulders.

When the guide announced them she turned over her shoulder, revealing a pronounced swell to her profile. She was very pregnant, from what McCoy could see. She gave them an eager smile, her hands coming together in front of her chest, prayer-like.

"You must be Captain Kirk," she said, looking at Jim.

"James T.," Kirk smiled, giving a flourished bow and taking a step forward. "My associates - First Officer Spock and, of course, our main attraction -"

"Dr. Leonard McCoy," McCoy answered, nodding at her as Spock had done before him. "Chief of Surgery."

Her deep brown eyes traveled between the three of them with warm appreciation. "They did warn me that you would be handsome."

"Starfleet's Best and Brightest, or something to that effect," Jim admitted, with a blinding grin.

"Of course," she agreed, bowing. Bones strode forward, smoking at his colleagues, offering the Empress his arm.

“Now then, I believe we have an appointment.”  


* * *

  
The beach was a muddle of crew, all desperate to soak up the light and fresh air for as long as they could. Some even bravely ventured into the water, though the season made it quite cold and its mineral composition and sediments dyed their bodies a dull grayish purple. They sat together, Hikaru and Pavel, on the sand for a while, their pants rolled up around their ankles and shoes off, listening to the water and the chatter of the beach-goers. There was a portable stereo blaring, and the squeal of an Orion girl in a ruffled bikini being thrown haplessly into the water by a friend.

The air had the same salty coolness as it did at home, and if he closed his eyes Pavel could easily imagine he was there, walking the boardwalk of boyhood with his father, leaning on the metal railings to look at the ships coming into the harbor. He'd buy Pavel an ice cream, and take him to the thrift store to sift through the bins for old circuit boards and parts. He'd point out the big shiny building where he worked, manning the huge laser that shaved the edges of the heavy heat reflecting panels that outfitted commuter shuttles. Pavel would play with his father's hair where he perched on his shoulders, the same sun-weary contentment spreading through his body as it was now.

Here, the planet's sun was beginning its slow descent to bring the pleasant fifteen hours of bright daylight to a soft close.  

Pavel could feel the places on his face where he'd gotten too much of it. He'd spent all of the morning and afternoon with Sulu traipsing around the bluffs, which wasn't too rigorous, but had definitely made them suffer after months not being able to really stretch their legs. There were moments Pavel said that the climb was barbaric, but after taking photos from the summit and admiring the view they'd been able to descend easily down to the shoreline where there were lots of shallow pools and rocks to sit on. It was Hikaru's reward for Pavel dutifully holding on to a million sample tubes and calibrating instruments and putting up with the tedium of cataloguing for a few hours.

"What are your plans?" Pavel asked, head sleepily on top of his folded arms. He had drawn his knees up against the chilly breeze billowing off of the water.

Hikaru, stretched out and leaning back on his elbows, grinned.

"I've got a massage. They're supposed to be pretty fantastic," he smiled. "At least, it better be for what it cost me," Sulu finished, sunglasses tipping down his nose. Pavel smiled into the crease of his elbow, looking back at the water and then up towards the evening glow of the sky. He'd heard that too.

"What about you Pav? Riley convince you to do something dangerous and irresponsible?"

Pavel slowly unfolded himself, feet shoveling through the fine purplish sand.

"Ehhh," he started, scratching his arm. "He wants a rematch. He said he found a bar that has imports from earth - no copycats. He swears the reason he lost is because it wasn't made from real earth corn..."

"Oh, that's a load," Sulu teased. "He's a glutton for punishment. Even I know not to go against you when liquor is involved, and not for lack of trying."

"It isn't even fair for him," Pavel sighed. "He gets so drunk he forgets it's even a competition."

"Hopeless," Sulu agreed, picking up a handful of sand and watching it slide back out onto the beach through his fingers. Sulu repeated the action a few more times, each time trying to get the sand to dribble out more slowly.

Pavel watched, mind wandering.

"Pavel," Sulu said, and Pavel blinked, lifting his head again. There was a worry in the middle of Sulu's brow and he glanced up over the edge of his sunglasses at him. "You're alright, right?"

"Of course," Pavel said, sitting up more. Sulu looked back to the sand, but the concerned look didn't leave his face.

"Nobody really bothered to ask you how you were after the whole Spock thing," Sulu said plainly. "I'm sorry about that."

Pavel flushed, lifting his hands to wave them in front of his chest.

"No, no," he hurried to say, trying to clear the air of Sulu's thoughtful unease. "It was - you know, I wouldn't want anyone to bother it anyway."

"I know," Hikaru continued, giving Pavel a gentle look. "I know we're not allowed to worry. But." They both watched the strange dusky sand falling from his grip.

He cut his thought of midway, mouth pressed together. His dark eyes went out towards the water, hand still petting the sand.  

"I appreciate it, Hikaru, really," Pavel said, balancing his chin on his arms. He'd pulled his knees up again. "It was pretty embarrassing."

"I think anybody would be freaked out by Spock seeing the inside of their brain," Hikaru shrugged. "It's just worse because we all care about you so much. Me included. And then this whole Medbay business..." Pavel waited for Hikaru to say something about it. His ears were hot.

He didn't.

Instead, he tilted his head, pushing his useless sunglasses up over his forehead so that they rested in his hair. He fixed a curious stare on Pavel, the way a lot of people did. It said _how did you end up here?_

"What was it like? The mind meld."

Despite all the chaos that followed Pavel around over the past few weeks, no one had asked him that question. Now, sitting on the beach at twilight, it was a bit hard to remember just what he could equate it to.  At first the mind meld's impression was extremely vivid, but it was far faded now.

"Oh," Pavel said, considering. He looked at Hikaru, blinking a few times. "It was...what does he say? _One and together_. I could tell he was there.” He didn’t know how to explain tangibly what it was like ; how hard your subconscious vied for the space in your own skull and the blunt sweep of Spock  through it, like a hand stirring a pail of water.

"That sounds horrifying," Sulu blurted. Pavel gave a shallow laugh.

"It wasn't frightening - it was just wery intense," he traced a line in the sand idly with his hand. "I wasn't expecting it...and who am I to say that’s how it always is? I don’t know. I can’t just _ask_ him. I had a million questions.”

"God," Sulu marveled, half laughing. "Spock, just thumbing through your brain."

It was a good way to put it; at the time it’s what it felt like. The vulcan picking him up like a comic book and flipping through, looking for the page he wanted.

Hikaru's cheeks were a little ruddier, Pavel noticed. The pilot looked away, down the beach.

"His mind is very vibrant," Pavel mentioned, casually. He smiled to himself. "It had a lot of energy. I think - I don't know. All things are equally exchanged, right? Some of him, some of me. I don’t think I’ve gotten very logical since, though…”

"So there was a landscape to it?"

"Sort of," Pavel said. "Colors and feelings, the sound of his voice. Shapes and colors… I thought, if I  stopped to look harder it would come into view, but it never did... The worst part was it felt like hours. It gave me motion sickness,” he laughed and his eyes closed in boyish sheepishness.

Sulu rubbed his bottom lip, obviously processing all of it. His eyebrows were raised. There was a long stretch of quiet between them, filled only by the sound of the waves.

"Spock knows about it, doesn't he. And the Captain. And -"

"Yes," Pavel said, before Sulu could continue. There wasn't a need to clarify; Sulu knew Pavel understood exactly what he was referring too.

"That," Sulu said, all blunt sympathy. "Blows."

"Who told you?" Pavel asked, not angry, but defeated.

"Riley. Ages ago."

"Ayy..." Pavel mumbled, putting a hand over his face. He hadn’t expected to hear that. "Did he tell anyone else?"

"No, no, don't worry!" Sulu assured, putting his hand out. It landed on the back of Pavel's neck, patting a few times. "Really. He only told me. He was drunk. You can take it out on him tonight!" Hikaru fidgeted, brushing sand off his sleeves. "But," he added, giving a sly little glance. "Uhura _definitely_ knows about it."

Who didn’t know then? Scotty? Pavel groaned louder and Hikaru tried to muffle his own chuckle so he wouldn't feel too badly. Pavel felt Sulu starting to stand, stretching out a little. He followed, the two of them holding their shoes and brushing the sand off their clothes.

"I gotta ask," Sulu said, as Pavel bent to zip his boot. "Why him? McCoy is alright but, you know. He’s McCoy.”

“He thinks _you’re_ a pushy show off,” Pavel said.

“What?” Sulu said loudly, blurting it out, shuddering under the implication. Pavel laughed and turned to him with sunny grin.

“Gotcha.”  


* * *

 

They were behind a few tall silk screens, the empress looking on with a pleasant expression as McCoy finished putting his things away in his kit. Far off the sound of a bird or a flute and water falling echoed, making the space seem even more cordoned off.

“All fingers and toes accounted for,” he remarked, latching it. “In my professional opinion, you’re fit as a fiddle.”

The Empress laughed, repeating the phrase back to him and caressing her stomach lovingly.

“I always look forward to being among earthlings,” she said on a sigh. Her face, up close, showed the fatigue of her condition. A hundred advancements but pregnancy was still pregnancy. Some things just didn’t change.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable,” Bones said. “Some can be more trouble than they’re worth.”

“You don’t like your kind?” The Empress was leaning back now, regarding him with curiosity. “Your friends? The Captain?”

“One of the worst,” McCoy said and she smiled again.

“Certainly there are a few that you enjoy? Family?”

“Too pleased to see me off planet,” McCoy sat, his kit at his feet, looking at her. “Don’t let it get around but I’ve had my moments of grandiose idiocy.” He let his voice settle into a long humming drawl that always tickled young ladies, no matter where they happened to be from.

“Oh no, not you good doctor,” she laughed. “I won’t believe it. You’re a lover, I can tell.”

McCoy stroked his chin  at that, giving her a sly look that made her giggle. He wouldn’t disparage a compliment like that from someone like herself, if not for the sake of politeness, he stressed.

“It would be poor diplomacy,” she agreed. She considered him, fingers splayed on her middle, tapping them.

“I remember when my wife was pregnant,” he mused. “She always looked happily lonely. It’s an excuse to not have to bother with people.”

“I wish I had more of that...You had a wife?” the Empress grinned around the words.

“Ex-wife,” he amended, but he could tell she was still gloating.

“For someone with as much contempt for others you have a disarmingly good bedside manner, Doctor,” she teased. “I wouldn’t even be surprised if you had plenty of people eating out of your hand…and that’s my official report.”

“Much obliged,” Bones said, the skin at his eyes tightening. He rubbed his forehead lightly. “These days I can use all the good word I can get.”

The Empress looked to her stomach and sighed.

“It is terrifying, isn’t it. There’s a whole other individual at stake,” Bones realized she was wearing makeup, he could see it creased around her mouth. It made her look older.

“Yes, it is, but it’s also remarkable,” Bones said, and he reached forward and patted her hand. “Unfortunately, I can’t prescribe anything for that first part except general advice.”

“And what’s that?”

As she spoke several attendants beginning to file in around the screen, and behind them trailed Spock, hands tightly behind his back. Bones stood and brushed off his slacks, looking into her open and lovely face. He bent and held his hand to her ear and she turned her head slightly to him.

“Don’t let anybody tell you a damn thing about it, my dear,” he whispered.  
  
The attendants descended upon her, and McCoy went past Spock to leave, the vulcan on his heels.

“Doctor, may I remind you that such an unprofessional manner of speaking might reflect badly-,”

“Excellent idea Spock, why don’t you go in next year and try to reflect on a pregnant woman...”

Spock finally fell into step beside him, scowling.

“What’s it that Jim always says? _Relax_ ,” McCoy drawled, slowing now that he was out of earshot from anyone else.

“I assure you, Doctor, I am giving it every effort,” Spock muttered, and McCoy gave him a sidelong stare. The two passed into uncomfortable silence, which wasn’t new for them but for an entirely different reason.

“Have you approached Chekov?”

“No, I have not,” Bones said flatly. “I don’t see you jumping at the bit to approach him either, might I add…”

 _Haven’t not-approached him_ , Bones thought, which he was more than certain Spock already knew. It wearied him. He didn’t want to make it any more of a complication than it was, but the consequence of letting it go on was too clear. He didn’t know why he couldn’t just be a son-of-a-bitch; maybe it was to spite Jim, to prove that he didn’t have to resort to those means all the time. He could be decent, he thought. Let Jim go fuck himself over how lascivious he was.

It was decent, wasn’t it? Letting the boy hang around him wasn’t doing harm. It just _was_. He was used to it now. Besides, who was going to look after it without Bones there? He couldn’t leave it to this idiot. He rounded a suspicious look at Spock.

Spock flinched, which was a close as he’d get to looking licked on his worst day and Bones garnered some temporary satisfaction.  
  
“I would,” Spock said finally, as though it was meant to impress Bones in some way. “But I’m combating hesitation”

“It’s called shame,” Bones said cheerfully. “I’d get used to it.”

“Bitterness,” Spock said, and Bones paused mid step, Spock having to stop and turn to look at him. “After our encounter, I was able to render all my knowledge of him and yourself insignificant to my own experience. What I feel now is bitterness. I’m well versed in the intricacies of shame, Doctor.”

McCoy was silent and Spock looked away at the intricately tiled floors beneath their feet.

“As you know, he was there when my mother died. To hold him responsible would be,” he looked at McCoy and McCoy felt his mouth frowning around the word _illogical_.

“I don’t wish any harm to him,” Spock said. “But if something were to come to pass, if this was not handled in a range of delicacy, then perhaps I would feel the shame you mentioned. Shame at my own irrational anger, and shame that he shares my memory of her. That I may have had a hand in conjuring the misfortune, however obliquely, to punish him.”

“What are you asking me for?” McCoy said tiredly and Spock’s even look didn’t waiver. “I’m afraid medicine still can’t account for being an asshole. If you’re mad with him just let it lie.”

“Do you understand me,” Spock said, and there was a hint of human in his voice that made McCoy incredibly uncomfortable. “This…predicament.”

“You want me to let him down easy,” Bones said and Spock’s dark eyes flickered. “Well, easier said than done.”

“I don’t want to feel culpable for whatever occurs between you and the ensign,” Spock said. “ _That_ is all.”

McCoy studied Spock. His face was back to the blank mystery that it usually was.  

“Great chat, as always,” McCoy sputtered, because it was all he could think to say. Why did he feel like there was a loaded gun pressed to his back all of a sudden? Or, far worse, that Spock knew something he didn’t.

The vulcan turned and began to walk and McCoy went doggedly after him to find Jim, if Jim was around to be found.   

“Some fuckin’ vacation,” McCoy muttered.  


* * *

 

The first thought that crossed Pavel's mind when he saw McCoy walk into the bar and sit down was that he must have heard the same thing - no copycats. Which, was fitting. Riley was the notorious loudmouth and once he started talking news traveled up the chain at mach five.

The second thought, butting right against the first, was that McCoy hadn't bought a new jacket in at least five years. It was the same worn leather mess, cracked and broken in at the seams. He filled it out even more now; it was snug at his shoulders and a tight line across his back, swinging open in the front. He walked in alone, which was strange, considering the broadcast included him in the party with Kirk and Spock. Like Sulu, they must have had separated earlier because of other plans. A captain was sure to have a lot of offers for services, Pavel thought. That, or Kirk had become distracted and Spock was usually more inclined to spend his time on board the ship or with Uhura than vacationing.

The more he considered, the more it made sense that McCoy would want to seek out a place like this on his own; he was a man very comfortable in his solitude. The bar didn't feel flashy enough for Kirk, even with the rumor of authentic booze, which Pavel was inclined to believe was only a rumor now that he was several drinks in.

Pavel's face was hot and still a bit pink from earlier that day. His hair would be noticeably lighter tomorrow, and the sunburn would give way to a smattering of freckles for a few weeks before they faded under the artificial light of the ship. He watched, while Riley talked up some poor young local, as McCoy took his seat at the bar.

He was wearing black pants, a pair of boots that looked as heavy and old as the jacket, and what Pavel was able to recognize as one of the high performance undershirts that they all wore underneath their uniforms. His hair, usually conspicuously kept, was looser in front and his face was already getting a rough texture from stubble - McCoy must have ignored the need to shave the day before because of the promise of shore leave.

Riley, considerably more drunk, didn’t notice Pavel’s lack of conversation. He was fully engrossed in charming the scrubbed clean youth with exaggerated tales of holding tricorders on strange worlds for security teams. That, and the time he was possessed by an alien sickness that compromised his mind for approximately eighteen hours.

“It was horrible,” he slurred while his captive audience listened all too attentively. “Me! Possessed!”

If Pavel wasn’t so focused on McCoy he would have turned to point out the only trouble Kevin got up to was holing himself up in a lab, seizing the con, and declaring a ship-wide ice cream social while crooning “My Wild Irish Rose” at the top of his lungs.

Pavel watched the bartender – they seemed more human than not – lean close to McCoy.

McCoy held up two fingers. They nodded.

Before long a glass with amber liquid appeared. McCoy inspected it with a jeweler’s scrutiny, tipping the drink slightly so it slid side to side. He took a whiff, then swirled it, then a sip, heal tapping hard on the metal foot hold under his stool. Pavel watched, enraptured by the ritual of it.

McCoy smirked into his glass, and Pavel felt the smile creep across his face.

McCoy tossed the rest back in one masterful gulp, and then snapped his fingers for another. This time, the drink came with an effervescent tonic paling the color. Pavel ran his tongue over his own teeth, wondering what it would take like – if it would burn less than what McCoy had let him sample in the office. It was obvious the doctor had smoked out the truth; he wouldn’t bother to dilute it if it were earth-made. That would be a sacrifice of quality.

Pavel imagined a self that hadn't spent years thinking about McCoy and repeating their limited interactions over and over until they were folded within his whole body. When he did this he could manipulate them into something more; they began to belong to him. McCoy's hands on Jim's arm curled around his waist and skimmed his sides. Those dark lovely eyes brooding at forms now stared down on him and his bruising, blunt mouth landed on his neck and the hollow of his throat. He compared his own body - their height. Their weight. The rough differences of age and appearance, all of it a thin curtain of smoke hovering over his brain.

It couldn't be his fault. He was the one burdened with the overactive mind that was constantly slack with boredom and a throb of hormones. He couldn't begin to guess how many nights he'd spent manipulating the clay mound of his heart to fit the shape of all the desires he had.

The new Pavel here, in this bar, on this planet, wouldn't know the hot softness of his pillow where his breath panted out, or the comforting coolness of the shower wall when he pressed his forehead to it. This Pavel would only be seeing McCoy for the first time and wouldn't be all fevered with wanting McCoy to fuck him.

The dangerous, severe little word rolled around in his dizzy head like it always did. He liked him to the point of craving him; wasn't it fair to name it? The feeling like dessert, like sweets, or the exhilarated exhaustion of finishing a race. A little on the ill side - sweating and heart pounding. Unhealthy in the healthiest way, like a day wasted sleeping or eating with your hands. His leg was jumping under the table.

At ten, his mother and father had kissed his face over and over before he walked onto the train that would take him to Moscow, and then, again, at fourteen, when they held him tightly between their two bodies in the shipyard before he was escorted to Starfleet - a half continent and an entire ocean away from them.

The distance between his table and McCoy's place at the bar was nothing. It was shameful that he was so nervous about a few feet. When he'd gone to school he'd hardly batted an eyelash, but now his pulse hammered up into his throat. He felt clumsy and young and tipsy and awful.  

He wanted to bury his head in his arms and wish McCoy out of the bar so he wouldn’t have to sit there and nurse the desire.

He heard the dim voice of his father in the back of his mind, all the sad concern, could feel his warm hands on his shoulders. _We know, Pasha, how difficult it's been. We know you aren't well understood, even by us. Even when you're our son...._ They were sending him to what the neighbors deemed 'good institutions', programs that wanted to invest in him. He was such a bold child, they couldn't help but be so proud. He didn't know why they were still doubting him when he'd proved it was what he wanted over and over.

Like the swelling voices in the bar, the air was clogged with a lot of sound - wailing and humming equipment and gull screams. His father drew him close to hear over the roar of shuttle engines and the lap of waves. _Please forgive us,_ his father said to him. _You may hate us one day for sending you so far from home - it won't be easy for you._

That's what his father told him, holding his fourteen year old's face between his hands. His mother stood, in a devastating and rare silence, holding her coat tightly around her body, tears making gleaming trails on her wind-pink cheeks. Pasha looked at her and a momentary fear enveloped him. His mother's blonde hair uncurled from behind her ear and the kerchief she wore, and he thought of the wheat fields swirling as they passed by on some weekend day-trip; there wouldn't be any more picnics.

The sadness was brief, surmounted by his ecstasy at the reality of the situation; of Starfleet. It was an echo compared to what he was currently feeling at nineteen, in this bar.

At the time, he steeled himself and stood up straighter, looking into his father's mild eyes, brave.

Don't worry, he said, his confidence returning. He was capable of any rigorous curriculum they could throw at him, he would succeed, and he would make sure everyone knew Pavel Andreievich. His father appeared at a loss for words. He patted his cheek and kissed his son's face over and over. His mother sandwiched Pavel between them. He whined at her not to cry, but she did anyway, sobbing into Pavel's brand new jacket. She couldn't even look at him as he left, her face buried in her hands, tucked against his father's shoulder.

For most of his life Pavel felt that his parents were only doing what they could to help him intellectually, and that may have been true, but now, floundering half drunk in all this feeling, he wasn't so certain any longer. Perhaps, it wasn't that way at all. Maybe they had anticipated all this, looking at the future in a way Pavel never had.

His parents concern wasn't about the exams, or the qualifications or studies. All the hopes, all the preparation, the sleepless worry over their wonderful talented boy who had few friends and fewer interest in garnering them.

It would cost them years and years of affection and watching over, but they were willing to send him out into the arms of someone else if it meant he would learn to be accepted.

They thrust him out into the universe where he would be exposed to as much as they could manage. Surely, even if he suffered, there would be someone, _some person_ , in these far flung corners of space and time, who would look at their son and say _ah-ha_.

It wasn't about Moscow, or San Francisco, or here, the planet farther away than they ever fathomed their son would end up. It was about this one journey from one table to the empty spot beside Leonard H. McCoy. The courage to go and lean against the bar beside him and say hello, wasn’t this place strange? Wouldn’t he like to go take a walk – wouldn’t he want to go somewhere else together – anywhere? Pasha didn’t know the way here, but together -

It was a hard violent kick that punted Pavel’s existence off course the moment the Narada broke through the black hole. Pavel didn’t realize that Kevin had climbed up on his chair and had chopped his foot down on the center of the table, which rocked and sloshed and then came squarely down with a cacophony of broken glass and heavy thuds.

Pavel found himself half way out of his chair, feet scrambling, covered in whatever concoction everyone crowded at the table had been drinking.  A glass rolled next to him and he blinked, wiping what felt like a daquiri off of his nose.

Kevin, stunned, suddenly began to let off swimmy, ridiculous laughter and Pavel felt a swell of fury and mortification begin to climb up his body.

“You alright?”

Pavel looked to where McCoy was crouched down, looking at him. He was obviously trying to not laugh and his mouth wormed around to keep the sound at bay.

“How bad is it?” Pavel said helplessly and McCoy looked him up and down, rubbing his hand over his lips. “Never mind,” Pavel dismissed, slowly coming back to life and starting to extract himself from the mess while Riley told the willing audience around him that there was no harm done. Pavel was his best friend, after all.

“Watch it,” McCoy said suddenly, grabbing Pavel’s hand and Pavel immediately tightened it around his, flushing under his sunburn. “Glass all over the fuckin’ floor, hold on…”

He stood, sweeping some of the mess away with his boot, still gripping Pavel’s hand.

“Hey!” He turned and shouted at the barkeep. “Can you get a mop over here? Someone’s going to cut their foot open!” The bartender rolled their eyes and yelled something to a leggy four-armed waitress.

“Alright, on three…” McCoy said. “One - two -”

He pulled, and Pavel followed, legs shaking.

“Thanks,” he said, his hand free to come back to his side. McCoy looked him up and down, satisfied that he was in one piece.

“You usually hang around with these fools,” McCoy said, talking out the side of his mouth and glancing at Riley over Pavel’s shoulder. “Or just when you’ve got nothin’ better to do?”

Pavel wished he had something sardonic to say back, that this was all just an elaborate babysitting job for Kevin, but he was too distracted with his clothes and how horrible it felt to be in them. He could sense people looking at him and it wasn’t the kind of attention he enjoyed, even if he was long used to it. Behind him, Riley continued his mad giggling, already trying to get away with peeling off his own shirt to please the girls who squealed and said to keep it on, they were in _public_.

The bass of the little club thumped heavily against his head which was still rattling like a drawer of silverware after the fall and the drinks he’d been having. The bar was suddenly hot and crowded now and darker than he’d originally thought.

“I’ll have to go back to the ship,” Pavel murmured, stretching his top out in front of him and surveying the damage. He could feel the gluey mixture already matting his hair and the skin at his hairline.

“Nah, I’ve got a sink in my room, just use that,” McCoy said, in a whiskey growl; in such a meaningless and automatic way Pavel would have thought he was joking.

Pavel felt the words pressing against his mouth when he lifted his head back up. _How drunk - are - you_ _?_

McCoy was looking at him openly, expectantly.

“It’s a bit of a stroll, but not too bad,” McCoy added, shrugging. No drowsy eyes, no slurring mouth.

No big deal.  


* * *

 

They were walking far apart from each other, their steps in unison. Pasha had a bit of a weave to his walk, bobbing in and out of closer proximity with the other.

McCoy’s hands were tucked in the pockets of the jacket, his body swaying gently side to side as he ambled along, looking ahead at the people who waded around them, streaming in and out of boutiques and salons and clubs with hissing fog spilling after them.

Pavel had his arms crossed, which was awkward with their slow pace, but helped along the darkness that was concealing most of the mess on his front.

“You hungry or anything?” McCoy asked and Pavel shook his head.

“No, thank you,” he replied, sighing a little. He wanted some water, but he didn’t mention this. McCoy made a little low approving noise.

They lapsed back into that strange little quiet they’d been sharing. Pavel realized that there weren’t any insects around. Or birds. It must have been curated, he thought. Or maybe they were seasonal… it was odd not to see any gnats milling above the streetlamps or see the swoop of a bat whirling down to snag something out of the thin air overhead. Pavel watched his feet, one foot landing in front of the other.

All he could think was that this wasn’t _supposed_ to be happening. It was _supposed_ to all stay in his head. He had never actually parsed out what he would do if he was in this sort of situation. It was one thing, on the ship, where things were stationary and safe and structured, everyone tucking themselves into bed at the end of the day knowing their place.

Now he was walking back with Leonard McCoy to a hotel room on a foreign planet, with no warning and no course of action. Just a simple suggestion that he’d dumbly agreed to. What if they ran into someone? What if Riley remembered him leaving – God only knew what he would say.

What if nothing happened. What if something did happen, but it was so disappointing?

What if, at the end of it, he walked away not even liking McCoy at all-?

His brain felt like a stripped screw and a coarse voice bluntly reminded him that McCoy was only being nice, that he was generous, that he was helpful. These were things he knew now, with weeks of backlogged empirical evidence filed away to prove so. Why did he want to be such a brat?

“You’re being awfully quiet over there,” McCoy drawled and Pavel squeezed himself.

“Sorry!” he chimed. “Just thinking.”

McCoy smiled softly, and Pavel had to look up at the sky, at the dull shine of the twin moons hanging above the buildings around them, ripe as cherries. The Enterprise shimmered above, a shudder of light passing over her as her beacons and sensors flickered on and off.

“Now there’s something,” McCoy sighed and Pavel tipped his head back farther, thinking that he meant the ship.

 “It’s August,” Pavel announced. “On earth.”

He saw McCoy raise his eyebrows in interest and then he turned, giving him a sudden, devilish grin.

“Summertime,” McCoy sang, in a manner of speaking, the sound buttery and young.

It very certainly could have been the air making McCoy so care free in that instant - it was fresh and clean coming off of the water and something about the change in atmosphere was making him feel calm and relaxed. It could have been the fact that, all troubles aside, McCoy knew how important days off were and he was grateful to shed Spock and Jim and everyone else. Times like these he let himself forget he was an overworked under-rested animal, that under the uniform and out of the ward he might actually exist as a person with wants and tastes and all the other jumbled affects.

He was happy to surrender the bullshit to a moment like this, where he was just a man who hadn’t heard the word _August_ in what felt like years. Who the fuck knew when such a time would come around again.  
  
The whole idea of months was useless in the middle of space, but McCoy understood better than, say, Spock, why humans were so intent on holding on to the premise. It was, like most of humanity's quirks, a good way to organize.  
  
Spock, whose former home world did not experience seasonal changes the same way, found Earth's climate too temperamental (much like its inhabitants). Most other xenoids agreed, or had their own variations and delineations  and conceptions of time that rendered months moot and so they weren’t widely discussed. Every so often a holiday would crop up and shake them all into remembrance or observance, but that was about it.

Sometimes the literal fabric of space bent and swirled around in such ways that months didn’t even actually _exist_ .  
  
Chekov, McCoy thought, must have rigged up some way to make due for that; a marvelous, clever, little embellishment. His mouth turned up at the idea of Pavel, determined, his hands on his hips, staring down the display in his bunk, spending a whole off-shift dissecting it piece by piece, or writing the code out in soft pencil on scratch paper from the rare analog readouts that Scottie had piled everywhere and chewing the end of the eraser or prodding his lips with the lead when he thought. That lovely slip of a mouth would bend into a happy shape when it dawned on him -

“Does it get hot in your neck of the woods?”McCoy asked, and Pavel huffed a laugh, his arms loosening over his middle a little more comfortably.

“Eh, sometimes we get a heatwave,” he said. “One week it was so warm my mother took me to the pool every day and she put vinegar in my ears and it felt so warm and terrible going down and she made me hold my head against her hand for ages - I hated it so much I wouldn’t get in the water anymore…” he trailed off. “I’m sure it isn’t anything compared to where you were.”

McCoy smirked. He had that right.

Georgia in August wasn't something McCoy ever anticipated missing. It was a relentless heat, and even stepping outside from the carefully controlled temperature of houses and buildings seemed regrettable. Trips to the mailbox were near impossible some afternoons, and only accomplished after a great deal of cajoling.

The McCoy house was old and white. It had neo-Corinthian columns in front and a circular drive centered around a shallow pond where a dry fountain head in the shape of a rearing Hippocampus presided over lily pads and lotus. The property sat on a few acres - enough for his father to have his horses and a place to store the boats during the winter. A bramble ran along the back border with a narrow creek and there was a huge old growth oak in the back courtyard surrounded by a firm stone wall, branches spreading out over the patio. They'd hang lanterns in the summertime for his mother's garden parties and dinners.

As a boy, spent a great deal of time traipsing back and forth between the barn and the house to see about the horses.

  
Daddy didn’t hire help, after all. He had a son.

At twilight, when they were put away, he would go out to the kennel and give their dopy hounds treats and rub them down a bit. He’d come away smelling like dogs and wild things and hay. The field between the house and the barn would be flat and still without even a rustle of wind. There would be the loud whirring cacophony of insects and night frogs and the moon rising, the roundish gleams off the colony domes sequining the yellow circle. Beyond the oak, when he was walking back, he would see the smaller, faint, ring of his father's smoking pipe.

Evening was a rare, tender time. His father would let him lean into his side while he smoked and read thick heavy books by people with foreign named and looked out through the screen at his land while mother sipped amaretto in the kitchen, content to be alone for a moment of her watched and petted existence.

She’d offer him a sip when he wandered inside to wash his hands or steal a piece of cake and it tasted like cherry cough syrup, but in a good way.

The old man would sit him down and put his foot up on the wicker lounger and school him on the poets and philosophers, quizzing him on arcane, old wisdoms, laughing around his smoke when his son would get something wrong and try to negotiate his answer. Leave the dealing to the attorneys, Leo, he’d say, gesturing with the lit end.

“Is that why you became a doctor? For your father,” Pavel asked, and McCoy shrugged.

“Oh no, I did that for the social life” McCoy said, and he meant it to sound funnier than it came out - Pavel’s chin was tucked down a little.

McCoy pieced together a  narrower-shouldered, thin chested child  climbing out of the pool and turning a mottled bluish color under his towel from the cold breeze sweeping over the sun decks; a quiet onlooker shivering like a little toy dog while the older, bigger, kids cavorted in the deep end. Squirming as his mother put drops in his ears, telling him to hold still for just a moment while the others looked on and teased his scrawny back.

He could see water dripping off his curls and drying them flat, his chin on his knees, prodding bees where they drank on the splash-washed concrete. Telling his mother he didn’t want to go back to the pool...

“Was that party in August?” the words rolled out between them like a puff of smoke.

“No, zat was in May,” came Pavel’s voice at his side, quick, sitting on the answer. “After finals.”

The start of the summer when it was sprawling out ahead of them. Back home the fog of the lonely damp  winter settled up in the sky as heavy thunderheads. Magnolias were slick from the rain, heavy white blossoms like clouds in the branches, smelling wet and petally. Leonard had seminars that June and July. Jim jumped off a roof into a pool, falling out of the sky like a meteor. Everything rippled out until it all bled into one long blue-green algae slimed streak that blended into August. He’d missed Joanna’s birthday.  Every now and again he’d think _wodka_ out of nowhere and try to remember where the hell he’d heard such a stupid thing.

It fell out of his mouth, shitfaced at a bar, and Jim gave him a boggled look through his beer haze.

 _“This weird kid,”_ he said. _“Just standing around with nobody...some Russian kid.”_

 _“Ohhh,”_ Jim said, like he knew, but he hadn’t been there at all to see the boy clutching his cup and darting his eyes around, appearing un-bothered, which somehow made the absence of others feel worse. Bones hadn’t even cared at the time, had barely noticed him. He’d completely forgotten till now. His nose prickled with the scent of chlorine.

McCoy wondered what it was like to be alone at a party and finally have someone to talk to - to watch them walk away from you.

“Doctor?”

McCoy’s brow was furrowed. He’d stopped walking and was giving Pavel the kind of concerned look that didn’t have a clear point. The boy looked so tired. His shirt was ruined, his hair was stiff and crackling from the syrupy drink.

Pavel’s shoulder’s dropped.

“Ah, Doctor..,” he raised his hand up, a slim white flag waving humbly in surrender. “You don’t have to say anything to me, or do anything, it’s...” he gave McCoy an awkward grimace. “I liked getting to know you more, so that’s all.”

You’re an idiot, McCoy wanted to say. Didn’t he know? Had he not lived enough to understand how it was for beautiful things? When they stood there by themselves any old fool could sidle on over. He lit up at the thought that someone else might have come down the stairs before him that night, someone else might have appeared to him at the bar and helped him up. Some selfish person, McCoy thought. Bad, selfish people filling up empty spaces, shoving in where they shouldn't be and doing him over just because they could. 

That poor sweet baby standing alone at a party, at the side of the pool, here in front of him, looking so defeated and trampled and exhausted.

McCoy reached out, arms netting him, holding him tight, tight, tight.

Pavel didn’t make a sound but was stone still, even when McCoy kissed him the first time. Even when he held his face in his hands and kissed both corners of his mouth and raked his fingers behind his ears in his soft hair and stepped so that he was gathering him up close. Let it be a lesson, he thought, because Pavel deserved to know how he should be treated. He owed him that much.   
  
There was nobody on the street but the two of them in the late coolness of their little August.  

Pavel’s hands grabbed his arms, clawed his jacket, pulling him in, and when McCoy’s tongue got into his mouth Leonard  thought that if it wasn’t him, it would be somebody else knowing what he tasted like - Sulu or that fucking fool Riley or Jim, God help him -

Pavel’s breath hitched unevenly, and they were chest to chest, and McCoy still felt, unbelievably, like he could squeeze them more together - that the only person who might have been closer was Spock, who had pried open his head and seen McCoy already standing there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when anton died it was sort of the proverbial cherry on top of a really terrible time in my life and i felt very sorry for myself and didn't want to touch this or do anything like it tbh. 
> 
> but i really love these characters and i know you do too! reading all your reviews was really encouraging and i love them. 
> 
> so let's see where this little road takes us and find a little bit of joy!
> 
> xo


End file.
